#life feels like a constant silent hill

[apllecrash]

still alive

[seriiousgiirl]

𝐼𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ݁𝒿𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓍 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇.⊹ ₊ ݁.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. alternate universe - canon divergence, post-silent Hill 2, angst and fluff and smut, touch-starved, redemption, grief, mourning, psychological trauma and horror, mutual pining, James adopted Laura, age difference, smut, vaginal sex, rough sex, rough kissing, aftercare, daddy kink, James deserves his happy ending, James is desperate and pathetic, based on the Silent Hill Games and mostly the remake

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Three years after the harrowing events in Silent Hill, James Sunderland has survived the haunting memories of his past but carries the heavy burden of grief and guilt. Adopting Laura, James strives to create a normal life for them both, but the echoes of his former life linger, haunting him in moments of solitude.

As he navigates the challenges of fatherhood and a corporate job, James grapples with PTSD and the lingering shadows of his late wife, Mary. His daily interactions are fraught with anxiety, especially when it comes to Laura's teacher, Y/n. Young, vibrant, and filled with warmth. But as Y/n becomes an unexpected source of comfort and tension in James's life. He is drawn to her kindness and beauty, yet he feels undeserving of her attention, burdened by the ghosts of his past.

When Y/n reaches out with genuine concern for James's well-being, he wrestles with feelings of guilt, lust and longing, torn between the desire for connection and the fear of betraying Mary's memory. As James's pent-up frustrations bubble to the surface, he finds himself navigating a complicated emotional landscape where love, loss, and redemption intertwine.

❛ Part 2 ⋅ masterlist ⋅ ao3 ⋅ requests ❜

➜ ┊ a/n: Hello everyone! After years of being more or less in the Silent Hill fandom, the remake rather inspired me... :') After seeing how cute James is in it, I felt like I was rediscovering his character. The story is a bit different from what we usually see, but I hope it will appeal to the (few, I don't think many would be interested in a silent hill fanfic) people who read it.

➜ ┊: chapter 1/?.

James woke up again, his body snapping upright in bed, his breath ragged and uneven as if he had just surfaced from drowning. His chest rose and fell with frantic breaths that refused to calm, his heart hammering against his ribcage like a prisoner desperate to escape. The room around him was silent, still, and blanketed in shadows, the faintest silver glow of the moon seeping through the thin, worn curtains. It painted his surroundings in an eerie light, enough to make out the vague shapes of his furniture but not enough to chase away the weight of the darkness.

He knew it was early—much too early. The alarm on his nightstand wouldn’t go off for hours, not until the unforgiving numbers clicked over to 7 a.m. He set it religiously, every night, clinging to the hope that one day he’d wake naturally to the sound, as if that simple act could restore some semblance of normalcy to his broken life. 

But that never happened.

James never woke peacefully anymore. His body, his mind, refused to grant him that mercy. Instead, he jolted awake in a cold sweat, his body rigid, his pulse racing. Each time, it felt as though he was being pulled from some unseen nightmare—ripped out of a hellish dreamscape that he couldn’t remember clearly but always left its mark. The fear, the panic, the suffocating sense of dread stayed with him, lingering like smoke in the air long after his eyes had adjusted to the dim glow of his bedroom.

He pressed his palm against his face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that clung to his skin. His body felt tense, coiled like a spring that had been wound too tightly. His muscles ached from the constant strain, from the battles he fought every night within the confines of his mind. The nightmares weren’t just dreams. They were fragments of a past that refused to stay buried, haunting him in the dead of night when the world outside was quiet and his mind had no distractions to keep the demons at bay.

The medication bottles on his bedside table gleamed faintly in the moonlight, their labels worn from use. He reached for them out of habit, his fingers brushing the cool surface, but he didn’t open them. No matter how many pills he swallowed, how many prescriptions doctors wrote, nothing ever worked. Sleep was supposed to be a sanctuary, a refuge from the waking world, but for James, it had become another battleground.

He let his hand drop back to his lap, staring down at his shaking fingers. He could feel the tension still coursing through him, the residue of whatever nightmare had dragged him awake. His body hadn’t yet realised he was safe, that it was just a dream, and the adrenaline still pumped through his veins. Every night, it was the same—this restless terror that clung to him, trapping him in a cycle he couldn’t escape. He longed for sleep, yet feared it in equal measure, knowing that the darkness of his subconscious held more horrors than the light of day ever could.

For a moment, he considered lying back down, closing his eyes, and trying again. 

But the thought alone made his stomach twist.

With a sigh, James decided to give up on sleep altogether. There was no use lying there, waiting for his heart to calm down or for the remnants of his nightmare to fade. His legs still trembled as he swung them over the side of the bed, the cool floor beneath him grounding him just enough to pull himself up. The shadows in the room seemed to shift as he stood, though he knew it was his mind playing tricks again. He had long stopped trusting the darkness.

He moved carefully, trying to stay silent as he made his way to the door, not wanting to wake Laura. She was the only constant in his life now, the only reason he hadn’t completely unravelled. But even the thought of her, sleeping peacefully down the hall, wasn’t enough to ease the tremor in his hands. As he stepped out of the bedroom, the familiar creak of the floorboards echoed too loud in the silence of the house, and for a fleeting moment, his breath hitched.

Sometimes, in these quiet hours, he could swear he heard them—the monsters. That same sickening creaking sound they made, their grotesque forms dragging across the cold. Or worse, the heavy, slow scrap of metal—a blade being dragged along the ground. His body tensed, instinctively waiting for the ominous presence of that thing— he came to call Pyramid Head. He hadn’t seen it in three years, but its presence still lingered, like a ghost lurking in the corners of his mind. His chest tightened as he imagined that scraping sound growing closer, louder, but he knew… or at least, he tried to convince himself it wasn’t real. Not anymore.

On the worst days, though, it wasn’t just the monsters. 

Sometimes, he would hear her—Mary. Her voice, soft and sweet, like the Mary he remembered before everything went wrong, calling out to him. It always started the same way, a gentle whisper at first, like she was in the next room, waiting for him. And each time, it grew louder, more urgent, until it was a siren’s call, relentless and cruel. It was enough to make his heart stop, to make him question everything, and then he’d remember—he knew where that call would lead. Straight into oblivion. Straight into the abyss of his own guilt.

On other nights, he could swear he felt Maria—her warmth next to him in bed, the way her body would press against his. It was so vivid, so painfully real, as though she hadn’t died in his arms multiple times, as though Silent Hill hadn’t swallowed her whole. She had been a ghost, a reflection of everything he had lost, and yet… sometimes she felt alive in those moments. His doctors told him it was all hallucinations, the remnants of trauma deeply embedded in his mind. Certified and explained away in clinical terms, but knowing that didn’t change how real it felt in those fleeting, terrifying seconds.

Even now, as he stood in the hallway, his breath uneven, James couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere—beneath the layers of his fragile reality—the horrors were still there, watching, waiting.

James padded quietly into the kitchen, his bare feet brushing against the cool tiles as he reached for a glass. The water flowed smoothly from the tap, cool and refreshing, and he drank it straight, the crispness washing over him. It helped clear his mind, if only for a moment, pushing back the lingering echoes of the night’s terrors. 

After finishing the glass, he flicked on the small lamp in the living room, its soft glow spilling light across the space, chasing away the oppressive darkness. He made his way to the couch, settling himself in front of the window, where the city still lay shrouded in early morning silence. Outside, the world was just beginning to stir, but here in this moment, everything felt suspended in time.

They had moved far away from Silent Hill, away from Maine altogether, as if he was still trying to escape the town’s haunting pull. When Laura had expressed her desire for a place near the coast, saying she wanted to feel the warmth of the sun and breathe in the salty scent of the ocean, he had obliged her wishes. It was the least he could do for the little girl who had become his lifeline, the one bright spot in his otherwise dark world. It had taken time, but he had learned to appreciate the small things—like the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the way the sunlight danced on the water’s surface.

He pulled his journal from the side table, the worn leather cover familiar against his fingers. The pages were filled with thoughts, memories, and an ongoing dialogue with himself—one that his doctor had encouraged. Writing was meant to help him sort through his feelings, to separate reality from the nightmares that still clung to him like shadows. It was a way to document the moments that felt tangible, grounding him in the present.

With the pen poised above the page, he took a deep breath, letting the silence of the morning wrap around him. 

Date: [XX/10/1993]

Another night of waking up in a cold sweat. The dreams feel heavier lately, more vivid. I can still hear Mary’s voice sometimes, like she’s calling out to me. I know it’s not real, but the longing… It’s hard to escape. I need to remember that I’m here now. That I have Laura. She needs me to be present. I need to plan my day—take her to the beach, show her the tide pools, maybe? She deserves to explore, to laugh, to feel alive. Maybe it will help me too.

James paused, staring at the words he’d just written. The ink was still wet, and he felt the weight of each line pressing against his chest, a mixture of hope and dread swirling within him. 

He continued, allowing his thoughts to flow onto the page.

I’ve been thinking about the way the ocean looks at dawn. It’s a beautiful sight, the horizon slowly illuminated by the first light of day. I want to share that with Laura. She deserves to see the world as it is. Maybe if I can show her that, it’ll help me remember what it feels like to be alive, too.

He turned the page, feeling the familiar texture beneath his fingertips, grounding him in a moment that felt too fragile. The nightmares are starting to blur again. It’s like I’m drifting between memories and dreams. I know I should talk to Dr. Fischer about it, but I hate feeling so exposed. Every time I sit across from him, it’s like peeling back layers of skin. I don’t want to keep reliving the past, but I also know I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s a part of me now—part of what makes me who I am.

But sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing enough. If I’m enough. Laura is so full of life—she deserves happiness, yet I feel like a ghost in my own home. The laughter that fills this place is often followed by a silence that weighs heavily on me, as if I’m a spectator in my own life, watching a play where I don’t belong. 

He paused, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, fighting against the swell of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm him. 

Some days, I can still hear Mary’s laughter, the way it used to light up the room, but now it’s a whisper in the wind. I wish I could reach out to her, ask her for forgiveness, tell her how much I miss her. But she’s gone, and I’m left with nothing but my guilt and the memories that won’t let me go. It’s a bitter irony—I have another chance at life with Laura, yet I feel more alone than ever.

I thought time would heal me, that the scars would fade, but each day feels like a new reminder of what I’ve lost. I watch Laura play, her laughter cutting through the silence, and it fills me with joy and pain all at once. I want to protect her, to shield her from the darkness I carry. But how can I do that when I’m still fighting my own battles?

Anyway, plan for today: Take Laura to the beach, explore the tide pools, and have a picnic.

As he continued to write, the rhythm of his thoughts began to settle, the initial chaos giving way to clarity. He documented everything he hoped to achieve that day, the things that could distract him. 

After some time, the soft patter of small feet echoed in the hallway, and Laura emerged from her room, her hair tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She settled next to James on the couch, curling her legs beneath her as she leaned against his shoulder, still waking up. 

“Did you even sleep at all?” she mumbled, her voice thick with the remnants of slumber. 

James chuckled softly, the sound warm and gentle. “Just a little. You know how it is,” he replied, glancing down at her. The early morning light filtered through the window, illuminating her features and casting a soft glow around them. 

“Not again,” Laura sighed, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “You should really take better care of yourself, you know.”

James smiled, closing his journal and setting it aside, feeling the comforting weight of their shared silence. His relationship with Laura had evolved significantly since that first day they met. In the beginning, there was an undeniable tension, a wall between them built from grief and uncertainty. Laura had been sharp-tongued and defiant, often testing his patience with her stubbornness. But over time, that wall had crumbled, brick by brick, revealing a bond that had become more profound and genuine. 

“Maybe I just like the quiet,” he teased, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. “It gives me time to think.”

Laura rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah, right. More like you spend it worrying about everything,” she shot back, her familiar sass coming through. But he could sense the softness in her demeanour, the way she had begun to let him in, and it filled him with gratitude.

There were still moments when she wouldn’t call him “Dad”—it felt too heavy, too final—but there had been instances where the word slipped out, once or twice. The first time he had felt a rush of warmth and something almost like fear at her words. It had caught him off guard, pulling at his heartstrings in a way he hadn’t expected. It was one night after a particularly rough day at school. 

The kids had been relentless, and when she had come home, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She had cried so much that night, seeking solace in his arms, and in that moment of vulnerability, she had whispered it—Dad—like it was a fragile promise, something she wanted to believe in.

He had held her tightly, whispering reassurances as she poured out her heart. It was one of the hardest days for both of them, but that single word had changed everything, reinforcing their bond in ways he never thought possible. 

The shrill sound of James’s alarm cut through the quiet morning, signalling that it was finally 7 a.m. He groaned softly, the sudden noise pulling him from the lingering remnants of his thoughts. “Time to get moving,” he muttered to himself before swinging his legs off the couch and standing up.

“Laura,” he called out gently, “you need to get ready for school.” 

Laura groaned but slowly pushed herself upright, her hair sticking up in tousled spikes. “Do I have to?” she whined, rubbing her eyes.

“Yes, you do,” James replied with a chuckle, heading into the kitchen to start breakfast. He could already hear her muttering under her breath as she dragged herself away from the comfort of the couch, but he couldn’t help but smile at her antics. As he prepared breakfast, the scent of eggs and toast filled the air, mixing with the cool October breeze that slipped in through the slightly ajar window. 

He could hear the soft shuffle of Laura getting ready in the background, her footsteps echoing through the hallway.

When breakfast was ready, he set the table, placing a plate in front of her just as she joined him. They ate together in comfortable silence, the clinking of forks the only sound between them for a few moments. 

“So, there’s this kid in class…” Laura began, her voice a mix of enthusiasm and worry. As she recounted her stories, James listened attentively, nodding along as she shared her concerns about a class project and the kids who were teasing her again. She spoke with an earnestness that made him proud, she was a smart little girl.

“...and I do think the teacher likes me a lot,” she finished, her voice dropping slightly, smiling shyly.

James reached across the table, placing a comforting hand on hers. “You’re doing great, Laura. I’m so proud of you,” he encouraged, hoping to convey his support. 

Once they finished breakfast, he cleared the table while she dashed back to her room to grab her backpack. The familiar morning routine helped ground him, a stark contrast to the chaos that often filled his mind.

Then, James returned to his room, feeling the familiar weight of his thoughts returning. He turned on the water for a shower, the warm spray washing over him, almost as if he were trying to cleanse himself of his sins and guilt. Each droplet felt like it could wash away a little more of his guilt, his pain, and his memories.

After his shower, he stood in front of the mirror, towel drying his ash-blond hair and tidying it up, shaving his stubble. The cold air from outside seeped through the window, sending a shiver down his spine as he dressed for the day. He pulled on a simple shirt and jeans. 

But as James stood in front of his closet, the morning light filtering through the curtains, his gaze fell upon his signature khaki jacket hanging quietly amidst his other clothes. For a moment, he hesitated, his heart tightening.

The jacket felt heavy with the weight of the past. He recalled the feel of it against his skin as he navigated the fog-laden streets, the chill of the air contrasting sharply with the warmth it provided. It had shielded him from the elements, yes, but it had also cloaked him in the pain of his choices, the guilt that clung to him like a second skin. 

James swallowed hard, staring at the jacket, the muted fabric whispering secrets of the past. He could almost hear the echoes of Mary’s voice, feel the pang of loss that accompanied every memory. It was as if the jacket was tainted, infused with the blood and tears of that time—but also her scent, her warmth and gentle touch.

Perhaps… Today, he could indulge himself.

He took a deep breath, fighting against the swell of anxiety that rose within him. This jacket is just a piece of clothing, James, he reminded himself, yet it felt like so much more. With a decisive moment, he pulled it from the hanger and slipped it on, the familiar weight settling comfortably on his shoulders. 

James looked at himself in the mirror, the reflection staring back at him was a man still fighting battles. With a shameful sigh, he adjusted the collar, feeling the jacket’s fabric against his skin. When he stepped outside, the brisk October wind greeted him, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. 

Laura stood at the door, a look of surprise mixed with concern crossing her face.

“Why are you still wearing that jacket?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gestured to the fabric. “You know… after everything that happened in...” She couldn’t bring herself to say the name of the haunting town.

James shrugged, a faint smile creeping onto his face. “I still like it. It’s comfortable.” 

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’re so weird, James,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder as they made their way down the path toward the car.

“Weird or not, let’s get you to school on time little girl,” he said, his tone quite firm. Together, they stepped into the brisk morning air, ready to face whatever the day had in store.

‧───────────────

Dropping Laura off at school had become a routine, but for James, it was anything but simple. As they approached the bustling entrance, he felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a sense of dread creeping over him like a heavy fog. It wasn’t the school itself or the noise of children chattering and laughing; it was the attention he attracted.

In a small town where traditional family structures were the norm, a single father with a daughter who didn’t even remotely resemble him stood out like a sore thumb. James had chosen to keep his past private, and he was grateful that Laura’s adoption remained a secret. He avoided any conversations that might lead to questions about their relationship or as to why he was alone, fearing the scrutiny that came with revealing the truth. After all, in the eyes of the world, he was just a man dropping off his daughter, and that was how he wanted it to stay.

As they parked and stepped out of the car, the sun shone brightly, but it felt cold against his skin. He could already sense the gazes of the mothers lingering on him as he helped Laura with her backpack. Their eyes were sharp, curious, sizing him up like sharks circling prey, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of vulnerability. James kept his head down, focusing on Laura as she adjusted her straps and prepared to head inside.

“Have a good day, okay?” he said, forcing a smile as she turned to him, her enthusiasm bubbling over as she waved goodbye.

“Bye, James!” she called, her voice full of cheer as she dashed toward the school gates, her ponytail swinging behind her. 

With her back turned, James felt the full weight of the mothers’ stares. He could almost hear the whispers beneath their breath, speculating about him—why he was alone, where Laura’s mother was, and why they didn’t look alike. It was all too easy to imagine the conclusions they would jump to, and he wanted no part of it. 

Every step he took toward his car felt like walking through a minefield. He avoided eye contact at all costs, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground as he navigated through the throngs of parents and children. Conversations buzzed around him, but he focused solely on his breathing, trying to ignore the anxiety tightening around his chest.

As he passed a small group of mothers standing near the entrance, he couldn’t help but catch snippets of their conversations, even as he tried to block them out.

“Did you see him? He looks so sad,” one of them whispered, her voice dripping with faux concern. “Who could leave such a handsome man alone?”

James felt a familiar flush creep up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and irritation. He quickened his pace, but their comments followed him like shadows.

“I know, right? A single father is so sexy,” another chimed in. “I wish my husband was as committed to our son’s school life.”

He clenched his jaw, biting back a retort. The last thing he wanted was to be part of their gossip, yet he was helpless against the words that floated through the air like smoke. Each compliment felt like a reminder of everything he wanted to avoid—attention, scrutiny, and the inevitable questions.

As he reached the edge of the parking lot, he heard another mother say, “I heard there’s a parents-teacher meeting tonight. Can you imagine? He’ll probably be all alone again. It’s such a shame.”

The words hit him like a cold slap, and he paused, taking a moment to gather himself. The thought of attending the meeting, sent a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over him. Why did they have to bring that up now?

He finally reached his car, fumbling for his keys in his pocket as he tried to push the whispers from his mind. The weight of judgement lingered in the air, but he didn’t look back. He slipped into the driver’s seat, exhaling slowly as he gripped the steering wheel. “Just another day,” he murmured to himself, willing his heart to calm. 

James had avoided women religiously since he came back, erecting barriers around himself that felt both protective and suffocating. The loss of Mary had left a gaping hole in his heart, one that he couldn’t bear to fill with anyone else. Allowing himself to indulge in the warmth of another felt like an insult to her memory.

In the years following her death, he had retreated into himself, building walls high enough to keep the world—and the painful reminders of his past—at bay. He threw himself into fatherhood, pouring all his energy into raising Laura and ensuring she felt loved and secure. She was his anchor, the one bright spot in the dark fog of his grief. Yet, in avoiding connections with women, he had inadvertently created a deep well of pent-up frustrations within himself—frustrations that simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.

Every time he caught himself looking at a woman, whether it was a fleeting glance at a passerby or—especially a longer gaze at Laura’s teacher during a school event, he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. What am I doing? He would ask himself, immediately diverting his eyes, as if the very act of looking was a betrayal of the love he once held dear. He had convinced himself that he wasn’t ready to move forward, but in truth, he was terrified of what that would mean. 

In the quiet moments, when he was alone with his thoughts, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the weight of his solitude. The nights grew long and lonely, and sometimes he found himself longing for the comfort of another person—a hand to hold, a voice to soothe him. 

But the thought of crossing that line felt insurmountable, like stepping onto a precipice with no way back. He often wondered if this self-imposed exile was healthy or just a way of avoiding the inevitable. Deep down, he knew that if he ever did let someone in, it would come with a torrent of emotions he wasn’t prepared to face—the guilt, the grief, and the fear of moving on without forgetting.

Sometimes, when the darkness of the night enveloped him and the oppressive solitude weighed heavily upon his chest, James found himself struggling to resist his deepest, most shameful urges. Alone in the dim light of his bedroom, the air thick with silence, he would reach for the only source of warmth he had left—his own body.

But every time he started to jerk himself, trying to think about anyone other than Mary, he would falter. His thoughts would slip, no matter how hard he tried to redirect them. The moment he ventured into the realm of fantasy, attempting to conjure images of the warmth he longed for, his mind would betray him. Instead of the embrace of another, he would see Mary’s face—her soft smile, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief, the lightness in her laughter that had once filled their home. The memory of her enveloped him, suffocating and punishing him in its intensity, and he would feel a deep-seated shame clawing at his insides.

But jerking off while thinking about his dead wife, the one he had killed, felt utterly wrong. 

With a trembling hand, he'd stroke his hardening cock, trying to drown out the memories that haunted him. But no matter how hard he tried to push them away, they always crept back in, taking over his mind and filling him with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Images of Mary would flood his vision, her soft smile and sparkling eyes etched into his mind, along with the lightness of her laughter that once filled their home.

As he stroked faster, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, he could feel the pressure building inside him. But just as he was about to reach the edge of ecstasy, he would see her face again, and the guilt would consume him. How could he possibly find pleasure in this, knowing what he had done to her? 

The guilt was overwhelming, flooding his senses as he would try to push it all away, but it clung to him like a shadow. Tears would fill his eyes, hot and stinging, blurring his vision as the shame washed over him. He would cry, feeling pathetic and broken, as if indulging in his own body was another betrayal on a long list he had made in his mind. How could I even think of anyone else? He would chastise himself, the guilt wrapping around his heart like a vice, squeezing tighter until it became unbearable.

Knowing that he could never truly find solace in this act, James would eventually release his warm cum spilling onto his hand and stomach. But even in the aftermath of his orgasm, the guilt remained, and he would lie there, spent and broken, wondering how he could ever redeem himself.

It was a cycle of longing and despair that left him feeling more isolated than before. He would swipe at his tears, but they would keep coming, relentless and unyielding. The echoes of his cries seemed to linger in the air, a haunting reminder that he was still trapped in a cycle of grief that he could never escape…

‧───────────────

The day had finally drawn to a close, and the muted hum of office chatter began to fade as the fluorescent lights overhead flickered in their final moments. James gathered his belongings, the familiar weight of his briefcase resting heavily in his hand. The corporate world had wrapped around him like a well-worn coat, the same job he had held before, one that felt both calming and predictable. 

It paid well enough to keep the bills at bay and provided a stable life for him and Laura, allowing him to indulge her little whims—the occasional treat, a new book or doll, or even a day out at the beach. 

As he waved goodbye to his coworkers, offering polite smiles and half-hearted chuckles, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of isolation. Their lives seemed so vibrant, filled with laughter and casual conversations about weekend plans, while he felt like an outsider peering in. Part of him wished he could simply slip away unnoticed, disappearing into the anonymity of the evening. But the thought of the upcoming parent-teacher meeting loomed over him like a dark cloud, the spectre of his insecurities rising to the surface. 

What if Laura’s teacher had concerns about her progress? What if she brought up issues he was completely unaware of? The prospect of engaging in a discussion that could highlight his shortcomings as a parent filled him with an unfamiliar anxiety. He recalled how he had struggled to help her with her homework due to his absent mind, the frustration evident in both their faces as they would argue over James’ implications. Laura would always end up saying that she wished she had a better family…

As he walked through the now empty parking lot, James’s mind drifted to the scenario of the meeting. Maybe it was a bit late, and he secretly hoped Laura’s teacher wouldn’t want to linger past the working usual hour to talk with him. He envisioned himself slipping away, feigning an urgent call or an unforeseen obligation, but guilt gnawed at him, tugging at his conscience. 

He couldn’t let Laura down; she had come to rely on him, and he owed it to her to at least try.

“Just get through it,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if to clear the impending doubts swirling in his mind. The crisp October air washed over him like a cleansing wave, invigorating him for just a moment. Inhaling deeply, he felt the coolness slice through the tension that had built up in his chest throughout the day, if only temporarily.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of his ageing car, he turned the key in the ignition, the familiar rumble reassuring him, if only slightly. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; he still had a little time before he needed to pick Laura up from school. As he drove toward the school, the streets blurred by in a rush of colors, and he allowed himself to mentally prepare for the meeting. 

Maybe he could muster enough courage by the time he arrived, but deep down, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this meeting would push him closer to confronting the ghosts of his past—something he had been desperately trying to avoid.

Thoughts of Mary flitted through his mind, uninvited yet persistent. What would she think of him now? Would she be proud of how he was trying to raise Laura, or would she shake her head in disappointment? These questions haunted him as he navigated the familiar streets. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions roiling within him. 

The school building came into view, and he parked in a spot near the entrance. As he sat there for a moment, staring at the looming structure that housed his daughter’s daily adventures. With a deep breath, he pushed open the car door, stepping out into the cool evening air. 

As he approached the entrance, he reminded himself that this was part of the job of being a parent—a role he was still desperately trying to fully embrace. After all, it was true she deserved more than a father lost in his own grief.

As he approached the school gate, he spotted her standing there, the last child waiting to be picked up. His heart sank at the sight; he had hoped to arrive earlier, to be there for her when the final bell rang. A wave of guilt washed over him, but when Laura turned and her face lit up with a smile, that guilt was momentarily pushed aside.

At least she wasn’t angry. 

“James!” she called out, her voice bright and cheerful, as she stretched out her hand toward him. He could see a small backpack slung over her shoulder, and his heart swelled at how she looked—so much like a little girl embracing the world, unbothered by the worries that often plagued him.

“Hey,” he replied, kneeling slightly to take her small hand in his. 

As he thanked the school attendant, a friendly woman with kind eyes who had watched over Laura, he glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her teacher. He didn’t see anyone lingering by the entrance, and a relieved sigh escaped him. Perhaps she had decided to leave, not waiting for him to discuss whatever concerns she may have had about Laura. That was one less thing for him to handle, and he felt a slight weight lift off his shoulders.

“Let’s go home, shall we?” he suggested, his tone light as he turned to lead Laura away. The sight of her eager nod and bright smile made his heart feel lighter, even if just for a moment. He began to walk toward the car, feeling a sense of normalcy return to him—until a soft voice called out behind him.

“Mr. Sunderland!” 

Here’s an expansion on James' perception of you:

James turned, the sound of your voice pulling him back from his thoughts. You were striding toward him, your expression a mix of determination and urgency, the late afternoon light catching in your soft hair. 

There was something striking about your presence that always made his heart race, even amidst the rising anxiety he felt at these interactions. It was as if you carried a warmth with you, an energy that seemed to radiate in the space around you, igniting a flicker of something long dormant within him.

“I was just about to leave,” you said, a hint of breathlessness in your tone as you approached. “I wanted to talk to you before you went. Is this a good time?” You looked unsure.

James glanced at Laura, who was watching the exchange with curious eyes. He felt the familiar knot of anxiety twist in his stomach but nodded, trying to mask his apprehension with a calm demeanour. “Sure, I have a moment.”

“Laura’s been doing really well, by the way,” you continued, your voice lightening as you spoke about his daughter. “She’s incredibly bright and has made some good friends this semester. I’m really proud of her progress.”

James felt a flicker of warmth at your praise. He was grateful to see Laura thriving, especially after the rough patches they had navigated together. “Thank you. I know she’s been working hard,” he replied, glancing down at her, who was beaming at your words.

“But…” you paused, your tone shifting slightly. “There are some areas where she might need a bit more support. I think if we work together, we can help her really shine.”

James felt a wave of gratitude and unease wash over him. While he wanted to support Laura, the idea of deeper involvement with her teaching felt daunting. “What do you suggest?”

Your eyes met his, and he felt a strange mix of comfort and vulnerability in that gaze. You began outlining a few ideas, your passion for teaching evident in your animated gestures. He found himself hanging on your words, drawn in by the way you spoke.

As you began to speak about Laura’s progress, he couldn't help but take in the little details—the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about the kids, the way your hands moved animatedly as you explained your thoughts, and the curve of your soft pink lips. It struck him how youthful and beautiful you looked, filled with a vibrancy that he found both comforting and terrifying. 

He had known you for years since Laura started school, but he had always kept his distance, avoiding lingering too long in your presence. Every encounter felt like a double-edged sword; he wanted to connect, to know you better, but the fear of what that meant held him back. Your passion for teaching shone through, and it was evident that you genuinely cared for each child, especially his daughter. 

Yet, for James, that made you all the more dangerous.  It was a kind of warmth that he couldn’t dare to approach or touch, as if it would burn his skin. Your laughter and bright smiles were like sunlight piercing through the clouds, illuminating the shadows that loomed over his heart. 

But it also reminded him of how far removed he was from that happiness. 

The innocence and light you carried felt worlds away from the darkness he had endured. It made him question if he was even deserving of your kindness, let alone your attention—even if it was strictly professional. You had a purity about you that felt both inviting and forbidding. It was the kind of innocence that reminded him of everything he had hoped for once—everything he felt unworthy of now. How could someone like you, who radiated joy and hope, ever understand the darkness that clung to him? The guilt and despair that wrapped around his heart like a vice? 

Yet, as you continued, he realised that part of him didn’t want this moment to end. Just a short while ago, he had dreaded this conversation, but now he found himself wishing to listen to your soft voice all night long.

As you concluded your thoughts about Laura, your smile remained bright, and for a moment, James caught himself wishing he could linger just a bit longer in your presence, absorbing the warmth you exuded. But the instinct to retreat kicked in, a familiar defence mechanism rising to shield him from the vulnerability he felt around you. 

“Thanks for the feedback,” he said, forcing a smile as he tried to mask the storm of emotions brewing inside him. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

You smiled back, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes—curiosity, concern? 

He couldn’t quite decipher it. 

As you stood there, a moment of silence stretched between you, and James noticed a flicker of hesitation in your eyes. You looked shy, as if you were unsure whether you were crossing a line by speaking up. 

“Mr. Sunderland,” you began, your voice soft, “are you okay? I’ve noticed you’ve looked... a bit tired lately.” 

The question caught him off guard, and for a fleeting moment, he found himself wondering if it was painfully oblivious or truly observant of the details that everyone else seemed to overlook. But quickly, he concluded that he must have been projecting his exhaustion more than he realised, and he must definitely look tired. 

The question wasn’t intimate.

He forced a smile, trying to shake off the weight of your concern. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied too quickly, dismissing your worry as he nodded almost vigorously. “Just, you know, work and everything.” 

For a heartbeat, you searched his face, perhaps hoping to see something more, a glimpse of the truth that lay beneath his carefully crafted exterior. But after a moment of hesitation, you seemed to accept his response. You nodded, though there was still a hint of worry shadowing your features. 

“If you or Laura need anything, please let me know,” you insisted gently. “I’d be more than happy to help.” 

The kindness in your offer made his chest tighten, his heart pounding with a mix of gratitude and desire. He appreciated it, truly, but it also fueled the raging fire of lust that had consumed him. Here you were, simply trying to be helpful, and yet he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to have you all to himself, to explore every inch of your body and lose himself in your embrace.

His mind raced with vivid, graphic images of you—unbuttoning your shirt, revealing your tantalising curves; running his hands over your smooth skin; kissing and licking your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He could almost taste the sweet moan that would escape your parted lips, the moan of a woman ready to surrender to his sinful, wanton needs. The very idea of it made his breath catch in his throat and his cock twitch in his pants.

He felt like a beast, a predator stalking its prey, as he watched you. Every move you made was a tease, every word you spoke a seductive whisper that echoed in his mind and stoked the flames of his desire. You were a forbidden, irresistible delight that he craved with every fibre of his being.

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper and his voice painfully strained. “That means a lot.” He managed to nod, hoping to convey his gratitude without revealing the turmoil churning inside him.

James' lips curled into a polite smile, but his dark thoughts raged like wildfire beneath the surface. He tried to ignore the forced gentleness of his own tone, reminding himself that he was only being polite. Yet, every word he uttered was weighed down by heavy lust for you, and the knowledge that he should never let these desires surface again.

As you stood there, a mixture of warmth and uncertainty radiating from your presence, he felt a pang of regret. You were offering him a lifeline, yet he felt as though he was dragging you into a murky depth he didn’t know how to escape. The moment hung between you, a fragile thread of connection that he wanted to reach for, yet feared would only end in disappointment. In your eyes, he saw kindness, concern, and a spark of something he dared not acknowledge. But with every passing second, he also felt the walls he had built around himself begin to tremble, as if you might be the catalyst for change he had been both longing for and dreading.

“I should go,” you said, breaking the silence, and James felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment wash over him.

“Right,” he replied, forcing his mind to focus on the present. “Thank you Miss, and have a good night.”

You offered him one last warm smile before turning to leave, and he watched you go, feeling the weight of what had happened. The kindness you had shown him stirred something deep within—a longing he couldn’t quite satisfy.

[kettlefire]

Age is but a Number (DPxDC)

Daniel Fenton was only thirteen months old when he took his first steps. Only fifteen months old when he said his first words. He was two years old when he uttered his first sentence.

Danny could walk back his whole timeline from the moment he opened his eyes into this world. Except, none of those moments counted. They held no true weight for Danny's life.

No, there were certain moments that mattered. That had a clear shift to his life. Not every moment, not every milestone mattered.

Danny was five years old when he first felt the sting of disappointment at his parents missing a school event. He was six years old when the lab door was closed in his face for the first time, but not the last time.

He was eight when his young mind realized who was the one raising him. The one feeding him, waking him up, getting him dressed, and dealing with his tantrums.

Danny was ten when he learned to love and hate his parents for the true first time. Seeing both the good and the bad in them, and still loving them despite it.

He was eleven when he watched his sister crack under the pressure. Stood teary-eyed in the doorframe of her bedroom as he watched her cry and sob. He was twelve when he got into his first real fight with his mother, hiding away at Tucker's place for a few nights.

Danny was fourteen years old when he stepped into his parents' portal. When he accidentally hit the on switch. When a combination of ectoplasm and electricity ruined his life.

He was only fourteen when he experienced death for himself. Felt his life force leave him, and flood him at the same time.

Danny was still only fourteen when his world changed. New powers and abilities appear out of thin air. When a crazed billionaire latched on to him. When Danny had taken the mantel of a hero without meaning to.

He was still just fourteen when his life was filled with constant fighting. Both ghostly and human. Things got more tense between Danny and his mother. School was a weight that Danny wasn't sure he could handle.

Danny was fifteen when he had an existential crisis. The weight of a looming crown he was meant to take on the moment he turned eighteen or died fully. Having witnessed timelines where his family was gone. Having recognized a pattern of repetition in a life that Danny didn't want.

He was still fifteen when he made an impulsive decision. It was stupid and rash. Something expected from an angsty teenage boy, and not from an heir to a throne and a town to protect.

There had been no big fight. No big showdown. His parents still didn't know his secret. Danny hadn't bothered telling Tucker, Sam, or Jazz about his great plan. One moment, Daniel Fenton was in Amity Park. The next moment, he was gone without a trace.

Danny is just a fifteen year old boy, perched on a hill miles away from home. He didn't know what he was doing or what he was going to do. He didn't even know what state he was in.

He had just flown through the sky, a bag of emergency supplies slung over his shoulder. Danny had no intentions of stopping. That was until he stumbled cross a state line, and felt it.

A strong sense of caring and love. A feeling that Danny could only compare to the love he felt from Jazz. There was a strangeness in the air, but also a feeling of home. It drew Danny in like a moth to a flame.

Danny was just fifteen, curled up on a damp hill. Staring up into the night sky, and wishing for things to be different.

Not completely different. He didn't want to get rid of Phantom. Didn't want his life to go back to how it had been. Danny wanted things to get better. He wanted to feel like a kid again, something he realized he hadn't felt in a long time. Despite Jazz's best efforts to shield him.

The first tear had left Danny before he even realized it. A shaking hand wiped the tear away, silently cursing at himself for being such a baby.

Except that wasn't the only tear. It was like a dam, he never knew was there, had broken. Tears streaked down Danny's cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. Choked muffled sounds quickly turned to harsh gasping sobs.

Danny was only fifteen when he finally broke. Curled up on a random hill in a random state in the middle of nowhere. A glowing young teenager whose glow only seemed to dull with each gut-wrenching sob. Yet the stars seemed to twinkle even brighter than ever on this countryside.

So lost in the whirlwind of emotions that Danny was too young to fully decipher, he never noticed the approaching vehicle. Didn't so much as flinch when it came to a stop near him.

Danny's pain radiated with each sound he made. With each tear that left his toxic eyes. There was seemingly no end to it all. Until a single voice managed to pierce through Danny's bubble.

"Oh, dear... It's just a boy. Quick, grab a blanket!"

A small, frail voice was all it took. A voice weathered with age, and a tremble to it. Danny's whole body froze, head lifting to look at the speaker.

Except his vision had been quickly covered for a brief moment as an old flannel blanket was suddenly wrapped around Danny's shoulders. It smelt of dirt, hay, and warmth.

A kind old woman quickly followed to take a seat beside the glowing teenager. A warm, loving smile on her lips as she brought a thermos to Danny. An equally old and warm man seemed to follow behind her.

Danny's sobbing had quieted as quickly as it had started. The teen was completely bewildered, stunned to silence. This old couple, the embodiment of the American dream, didn't so much as blink at the sight a glowing boy crying on their land.

She had called him a boy. She had called him a boy. Danny was just a boy to her. His hands trembled as he accepted the thermos, taking a drink from the still hot coco inside.

Danny's stunned silence must have spoken volumes. The old man had given out a chuckle, moving to stand beside his wife.

"Don't worry, bud. Our son is just as strange as you."

Danny was just fifteen years old when he stumbled onto the Kent farm. When John and Martha Kent stumbled upon a crying glowing boy. When a sweet old couple hadn't cowered in fear but instead embraced Danny. Offering kindness and comfort with no strings attached.

He was only fifteen when he found himself a new home. A new life. One where he didn't have to be anything more than a teenage trying his best. When his powers weren't needed, only appreciated. Never expected.

A life where a warm home-cooked meal and a mother's kiss seemed to greet him every morning and night. Where a father's touch seemed to linger in every tractor lesson, every game of catch, and every time Danny learned more about the farmer lifestyle.

Danny was fifteen when he found his family. When he met the equally kind son of an amazing couple. When he had someone willing to teach him how to handle his powers, but never expected him to.

But Danny was seventeen when his past came back. When a town and people he cared about, all came flooding back in. When the guilt and shame of abandoning them came flooding back in.

When his new picture, perfect life started to crumble around the edges. When he realized life never went well for a Fenton and Fenton-adjacent. The perfect safe bubble had to burst eventual.

And well, that's a story for another day.

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

{ I bring you Sacrificial Virgin!Steve, Demon!Eddie, and Ghost!Robin for your tables. Take this and feast my friends.

I woke after 3 hours of sleep suddenly possessed with this idea and had to get it out of me immediately before i went back to sleep for a bit. Shits crazy. }

Warnings: death, blood, gore, demony things.

The Harrington's are an old family. Older than Hawkins itself, some say. Their manor sits on a hill, overlooking the town, keeping an ever watchful eye on the people below.

Steve has always been alone. No friends. No girlfriends. His only company the maids, and butlers, and tutors, all of whom float through his life, never constant, always different, no connections to be made. His parents make sure of it. He is to be pure. Always. Until they need him.

Unbeknownst to them, Steve has made one friend. A lonely soul, lost and scared, stuck in the halls of Harrington house after one of their many sacrifices. Her name is Robin. She's skittish at first, frightened of him.

He understands. And he waits. And a few months later she comes to him. They lie in his bed, and she talks to him. Tells him about the life she had in Hawkins. Tells him what it's like to live. She is cold to the touch. Steve barely notices.

They strap him to the table on his eighteenth birthday. He'd known it was coming. It was the only logical end to the life he'd been living. His family and their followers, dressed in their dark robes, looking down at him, but not seeing him.

Steve doesn't struggle. He lets them take him. Lies there and looks up into the eyes of a girl none of them can see, and hopes it will be fast. That it will end. Then he can be with Robin and they can find a way out of these halls, and out of this town, and be together, forever.

He doesn't cry. He doesn't make a sound when the knife sinks into him. His blood leaks onto the marble beneath him, his body going cold. Colder. He keeps his eyes on Robin as she smiles sadly down at him, her fingers laced with his though he can't feel it.

The room goes black. Suddenly. Like the light is banished by something unseen. His parents and their rable gasp, scattering out of Steve's sight. He hopes their afraid. And then a voice, otherworldly, fills the room. It's words bring a warmth to Steve that he's never known, it blooms in his chest the way his blood blooms across the floor.

"Why have you summoned me?" The voice says, edges of each word crackling with heat.

"We offer sacrifice." His fathers voice, it's shaking, he's afraid, Steve feels a sick pleasure roll beneath his skin. He hears the new voice make a sound. Disapproving.

"Ah. I see. You think you've summoned me." The voice is deep, and if Steve's not mistaken, amused.

"We- we have summoned-"

"Ah ah. No." His mothers trembling voice goes silent as this new thing cuts her off.

"You've done no such thing." It says. Steve hears footsteps. Hears gasps roll through the room like a wave.

"The boy, is the one bleeding out on the alter, is he not? He... summoned me. Not you."

Steve can see, suddenly. He can see the whole room, and the creature, or is it a man? He can see them all as if it's a play on a stage. He can even see himself, naked and bleeding. And Robin, crouched behind the marble alter, hands still firmly in his own.

"You think yourselves strong enough? To summon me? Without any bloodshed of your own." The creature pushes into his fathers space, Steve's stomach twists in sick pleasure as his father cowers before it. It shakes its head, disappointed.

As Steve watches it move from person to person, assessing, he can't help but find the beauty in it, in him. He looks a bit like a man.

Skin paler than moonlight, except at the hands, his hands are stained pitch black, the inky color crawls across his skin to his elbows. The nails on his fingers are pointed, and dripping, though Steve can't tell with what. And there's something behind it, a tail, Steve thinks, pointed and tipped black.

The creature grabs at his mothers white dress and she recoils at the stain he leave behind.

Steve smiles, a rare thing, in these halls, but he does it. He lies there, bleeding, and he smiles at his mother's discomfort. And this, of all things, draws the creatures attention. His head twitches in Steve's direction like he'd made a sound. Though he hadn't. Though he rarely does.

The creature moves closer. Stands beside the alter and looks down at him with pitch black eyes, and smiles with too sharp teeth. It snaps its inky fingers and the bindings holding Steve fall away. It moves two fingers across Steve's forhead, pushing his sweat soaked hair away from his skin.

"Oh Steven. What have they done to you?" It whispers, and the warmth in Steve's chest burns like coals in a furnace.

"Tell me what you want. Anything. It's yours." The creature, the man, the demon, for Steve knows it to be true. They've summoned a demon. No. He, has summoned a demon.

The demon rests his sharp fingers over Steve's barely beating heart, and waits for him to answer. He swallows, thickly, his throat clicking from underuse and death creeping up on him slowly.

"Kill them. Kill them all." Steve rasps, his throat burning, his chest aching. The demon smiles down at him, and winks.

"It would be my absolute fucking pleasure." The words drip from his blackened mouth like syrup, sticky, and sweet. And then Steve watches, barely able to lift his head now, as the demon tears them apart.

His parents are last. Cowering in the corner like scared children as this demon they've wished for descends on them with a burning fury and covered in blood. They whimper and recoil as he crouches in front if them, tail swishing madly behind him.

"You were given a gift. Eighteen years ago. A gift from the darkness." His voice is shaking now, his hand too, as it reaches toward them, pointing accusingly.

"A gift you begged for!" The shout rings through the nearly empty hall, the force of it extinguishing the candles littering the floor. Steve finds he can still see through the darkness.

"You begged us for this gift. And then you spent the next eighteen years neglecting it. Neglecting him." Steve can feel the demons rage, like it's his own, perhaps it is.

"There is no forgiveness. Where you are going. You will burn. And you will scream. And no amount of begging, shall grant you anymore gifts." His inky, bloodstained, hands reach out and grab their faces, his pointed nails sink into their skin.

"Not in this lifetime. Nor the many after it, that you'll spending screaming for mercy." His face seems to split then, his smile impossibly wide across his cheeks.

"We do not grant mercy in the realms of darkness and fire. We grant only what is deserved." There's a growl, low in the demons throat, as he rips the Harrington's from this world and sends them to the next. A sick squelching sound follows it as he removes his hands from the mess he's made. He's back at Steve's side shortly after that.

"Why- who-" Steve stammers, reaches up weakly, he can't catch his breath.

"Shh. Don't speak. It's alright." A warm, dry finger, presses to his lips. Steve's chest aches to feel more. Anything else this creature will give him.

"You don't have long I'm afraid. But I have an offer for you." The demon's voice is soft now, almost human. His features are smoothing out too, the blackness fades from his eyes and skin until there's just a man standing next to him.

"What it is?" Steve asks, his breath hitching, not enough air left in this world for him.

"Come with me. Stay with me. Forever." The demon places his hand on Steve's chest and it burns again. Steve gasps, squeezes his eyes shut against the sting of it. And then the pain is gone. It's no longer hard to breathe. He isn't cold. And he feels a hand in his. He opens his eyes.

"She can come too." The demon is smiling, and looking directly at Robin. She's smiling back, and squeezing Steve's hand.

"I can feel you." Is all he can think to say.

"Yeah no shit dingus. You're dead." She says, and launches herself at him. He catches her in his arms and laughs with her, it echoes through the empty halls like music. She pulls away, looks at him, softly.

"Whatever you decide. I'm with you." She pats his cheek, hops off the alter, and goes to stand by the window, looking out into the darkness that shouldn't be there.

"I'm Eddie, by the way." The demon says, he kicks at the ground with his toe, rubs at his neck.

"What kind of demon name is Eddie?" Steve blurts, his eyes going wide. Eddie laughs, and it too, sounds like music.

"It's just my name. So what do you think? You wanna come with me?" The demon, Eddie, asks, his fingers walking along the edge of the alter, eyes on the floor.

"Are you nervous?" Steve asks, his hands dropping to his lap, and he realizes suddenly that he's naked. As soon as the realization hits him, he no longer is. Black sweatpants appear out of nowhere, soft and warm around him.

"Better? And I am. Nervous." Eddie says, tugs on Steve's pantleg genlty.

"Thank you." Steve whispers, not sure how to take the fact he's made a demon nervous.

"I'll always take care of you. If you come with me." His knuckles press into Steve's thigh.

"I've been waiting a long time for you. Wasn't really planning on meeting you like this. Disappointing." He shakes his head, glares off into the corner where the remains of the Harrington's lie in a bloody heap.

"You've been waiting for me?" Steve asks, his fingers twitching with want to reach out, to take Eddie's hand. Eddie nods, bites his lip with a sharp fang, and then looks up at Steve.

"I have a fondness for shattered broken souls. I used to be one, after all." He smiles sadly, and Steve can't stop himself, he reaches out, takes Eddie's hand.

"I think I've been waiting for you too. I just didn't know it." He squeezes Eddie's hand. Eddie smiles, reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind Steve's ear. He leans forward, forehead pressed to Steve's gently.

"I made you so perfectly. Made you everything they asked for. Everything they wanted." Eddie drags his nose along Steve's, whispering into the space between them.

"And they hurt you. And broke you. And left you all alone. When you should have been with me." He nuzzles into Steve, both of them pressing into the other. Eddie's words slam into Steve's chest with shattering force. Eddie made him. A gift for his parents, all those years ago.

"I would've never left you if I'd known. What they'd do. And by the time I realized, it was too late to take you back. Even demons have rules." Eddie pulls back, cradles Steve's face in his hands.

"I'm sorry. All I could do was give you a friend. But I'm- it wasn't enough I'm so sorry." A tear falls down Eddie's cheek, steaming as it rolls across his skin and fades into the space between them. Steve's chest feels warm again, hot like a fire being kindled behind his ribs. He grabs Eddie's shirt and yanks him forward, presses his lips to Eddie's hard.

"It was enough. She was enough. She was perfect. Just what I needed. And now I have you, too." Steve kisses him and breathes the words into his mouth until he feels Eddie accept them. Feels Eddie wrap himself around him, his skin buring where it touches Steve, making him feel alive.

Near the window, Robin smiles at her shoes.

"Can I keep you?" Eddie whispers the words into Steve's neck, his sharp nails pressing into Steve's back as he pulls him closer and closer.

"Yes. Keep me forever. I'm yours. All yours." Steve whispers back, his dull nails clawing at Eddie's shirts, trying to get him closer, he'd climb inside him if he could. Eddie growls into his skin, possessive.

"Let's go home." He whispers, and they're gone. All three of them.

The light returns to the Harrington house. Bright dawn sunlight beaming in across bloodstained floors. Bodies scattered in heaps and piles around a blood covered alter.

The town of Hawkins forgets all about the Harrington's, for the most part. And their strange son who never left their hallowed halls. But all towns have their legends. And some nights, when the moon is new, and darkness reigns, they say you can hear screaming.

In the halls of Harrington manor, you can hear voices, screaming for mercy. And if you listen closely, right at dawn, they say, you can hear a chorus of voices, haunting, and beautiful, and laughing, as they answer.

"No."

[daeyumi]

Cycle of the Stars

Prologue I:

Protosphere

***

THUD.

THUD.

A wave of sensation washes over them, vague and fleeting, like light filtering down through deep water.

Colors.

Thoughts.

The impression of someone calling out to them from far away, obscured through the blurry images that whisper across their eyes.

THUD.

Silence. Oppressive and heavy.

It feels familiar somehow, this weight. A long forgotten dream. They feel that they’ve known it before.

They think they feel a sense of self. An identity against the current of infinitum, one blot on a blank sheet of paper. A tangible presence. It dissipates the next moment, rolled away on the tide.

‘Before?’

Not understanding the comparison, they sit alone with the word and it’s implications. More colors spring forth to their eyes, unbidden. A lone figure on a hill, his back to a ruined land. Red and grey and black. The gold-tinted-orange of a dying sun, bleeding out over the empty horizon.

A vast expanse of dying grass, crowned with innumerable gravestones. Grey earth, grey sky, grey stone. An aftermath, a finale. A beginning. A single swatch of green, kneeling before a headstone. Life among death.

A hole in a gnarled tree, leading down, down, into the recesses of the world, swallowing life and soul and self.

A call.

A name.

A word.

Link.

The connection, the void.

Everything and nothing.

The colors swirl before their eyes in an infinite flash of space and time.

THUD.

Memories? Visions? They try to close their eyes against the current of impressions and find them to be already closed.

THUD.

Mind racing, as if fighting through the muddy currents of a storm-bloated river. They can’t understand. Thoughts begin to feel impossible. Even the whirling forms within their mind’s eye start to close in on them, oppressive and threatening. Moving so quickly that the sound deafens their ears, crushing the blunt silence with an overwhelming pressure.

They crack open their eyes and find no relief in the cold darkness that envelops them, somehow moving even faster than the nauseating colors that threatened their closed eyes moments previously.

THUD.

THUD.

Thud.

Thoughts begin to slow, finally finding relief in the void beyond cognition. The intangible shapes and patterns flow languidly now, a comforting caress to replace the constant barrage on the senses. Blue. Like the shallows of a river that stretches to the horizon, through which can be seen the blue sky above, falling off into infinity. Above and below. An all encompassing finality to contain the world. Blue and green and the serenity of the day’s end.

Gradually, they become aware of a clenched fist repeatedly making contact with a thick pane of glass in front of them.

Thud.

A hand. An owner. Belonging. An emptiness to once again overtake the soul, blotting out the essence of the previous inhabitant to make way for new images to stamp their impressions on its walls.

Confinement.

A separation in the everything.

The e v e r y t h i n g

thud.

n e v. e r e n d. i. n g

thud.

thud.

thud

The quieting pulses are forced to one final crescendo as the hand, unbidden, makes a last desparate strike against the unmoving surface, shattering the barrier of the world.

Heavy glass bursts outward from the threshold along with a surge of viscous liquid, pouring out toward the ground; the draining substance revealing a limp, convulsing pile of limbs and torso, frantically coughing up fluids from their burning lungs. The sound of draining pressure coincides with the roaring in their ears and the desperate cacophony of retching and wheezing before falling uncomfortably silent; the only sound the steady ooze of solution falling to the ground far below in steady droplets. Drip. Drip. The solitary rhythm of measured time.

A heartbeat passes and they stir, blue eyes opening slowly as if wading through still water. Weakly, they try to raise their head to the glow of intense light radiating from above; their muscles strain tensely before falling limp again, exhausted.

Trapped.

The walls seem to close in again, threatening their inhabitant once more with darkness and manic imagery that still flashes before them when they close their eyes to blink. Forcing limbs to move, straining for something, anything but the paralyzing numbness that binds them. One motion at a time; but their muscles won’t obey, their mind won’t respond. Pain. Stagnation.

A hand passes through the right side of the eyes’ range of vision. Slender, pale fingers to match the hand from earlier.

Their own hand.

Panic sets in amid a tangle of flailing limbs.

Coughing, gasping for air, the pallid figure claws against the side of the cramped enclosure, hands scrabbling to find purchase on the smooth interior. Shaky fingers finally make contact with the shattered remnants of a glass wall in the side of the tank and grip weakly to the edge of the hole in the room, still dripping a slow current of colorless liquid onto the empty stone floor far below. In between ragged breaths, they start to pull themself desperately toward the edge of the enclosure. Muscles quivering from disuse, chest heaving from exertion. With a final effort, their body clears the opening and slides down to the floor below, landing with a quiet splash that shatters the silence in the cavernous chamber beyond the broken tank.

He lay unmoving for a moment, save for another round of violent coughing.

It takes everything they have to lift their shoulders off the floor, still-bowed head following suit. Hunched over, their weight barely supported by quivering arms. They try to lift their gaze and immediately retch again, a repulsive mix of bile and clear fluid spilling over the exposed skin of their legs and onto the panels of the already wet floor beneath them.

Bony fingers clutch at an emaciated throat.

Can’t—

The room spins and they fall the short distance to the floor.

Unconscious.

Unmoving.

Sodden, pale hair clinging to a thin frame. Skin, and bone, and earth. A birth or a battlefield.

The last gasps of echoing sound die alone in the vast recesses of that empty room, smothered by the endless labyrinth of tubes across the vast ceiling.

***

He woke.

A thick darkness suffuses the room, broken only by the cold blue light flickering through the thick haze that obscures the edges of their vision. The trembling figure pushes himself up on weak arms, bleary eyes surveying the landscape before them. Fallen pillars on the ground, crumbled beyond recognition until they snaked across the cold stone terrain and beyond to the edges of the horizon, starlight glinting off them in irregular patches. Beyond, small shapes protrude from the ground, obscured by fog and distance. Shrines? Homes? Some even show a faint glow of light that cuts through the mist.

Their head spins.

Blue eyes hazily follow the swirling patterns from the base of a row of short pillars up to the top where they meet the sky, seamlessly melding into the azure heavens.

An endless expanse of sky and clouds, above and below. All encompassing. Lightning without rain.

With effort, he directs his gaze to the pinnacle of the sky.

Six identical moons above, surrounded by a myriad of stars, trailing constellations back down towards the earth. Blue. The blue of the night sky, whose weakly blinking stars, too, are never strong enough to illuminate the land below. The blue of the deep ocean, where forgotten kingdoms sleep in disrepair, the same as the dilapidated landscape they see before them. Remnants of a broken empire. An unnatural blue, made worldly only by age and disuse.

Ages of….

A heavy weight overwhelms them, as centuries of water carving deep fissures through mountains; and they collapse to the ground, exhaustion reclaiming its hold on the figure once more. Cold. The void of the cracked tile below shoves daggers into their skin, leeching what little strength they had and reducing them to a crumpled heap on the frigid stone floor; the repetition of choppy, shallow breaths the only sign of life.

Another wasteland, empty as before, piercing white. Scattered glass upon a vast field. The cracks between lead down, down into the black oblivion of eternity, where all things are null, as time itself, as life, as identity, as color; and above, the frozen world. Colorless, unbroken.

Silent.

Melancholy; the soul of the interloper. Convergence. Concurrence.

Passed beyond knowing.

A lone tree in a grassy field.

Faces obscured behind titles and grand deeds.

Stories.

Legends.

“The face in the glass… is that the real you?”

They felt they should know… something. A past, a future. An identity. Surely they’d had one before?

…Before?

It’s empty; like walking a corridor lined with doors made of possibility that turn to dust at the moment of approach. A glass room bounded by mirrors and crystal vases filled with water. Tangible but hollow. Repeating in on itself with every refraction until the thin lines of light and shadow mean nothing to the perception of an observer.

Connections.

Thoughts.

Disorientation as one thought reflects back above the others.

Resonance.

The impression of a name. Link.

They felt sick again, and then they felt nothing.

***

The stars still shine above when they wake, crowned by those too-consistent moons. Not moons and stars, Link realizes as their vision steadily begins to clear. Too perfect to be….

Gingerly, they try to uncurl themself from their position on the floor and find that their body does work, though made none the easier by their atrophied muscles. He stretches out a trembling hand, placing it against the smooth floor and pushing himself upright. The air smells stale and slightly damp as Link looks around, cataloguing the shapes that their eyes hadn’t been able to make out before.

Strange figures in the fog solidify themselves into derelict machinery.

The walls are lined with rounded devices that give way to wide panels above, decorated with carved patterns of lines and circles evoking myriad constellations in a night sky; the points of the stars glowing faintly with ethereal blue light. Most of the light in the room, however, comes from the six identical skylights crowning the apex of the chamber. The “moons” Link had noticed previously. The large round lights form a circular pattern around the top of a singular central pillar in the room. A pillar which was not, in fact, a pillar; but the shaft of the massive incubation tank that, Link realizes with growing horror, they themself had occupied until just recently.

With difficulty, he shifts his position from where he sat on the floor, gradually turning around until he sits fully facing the massive apparatus. It is made of a hard material, more akin to stone than metal, and cool to the touch; an ominous column that bows out as it reaches the floor to make room for the cavernous space inside like a gaping maw. Link shivers as they reach out their hand to place it on the raised pattern of the tank, rough and almost porous in contrast with the sleek underlayer. It reminds him of a stomach, he thinks, or perhaps a tangled mass of intestines, with its maze of uneven lines twisting and curling in on themselves. They feel vaguely sick again but curiosity forces them to keep looking anyway, noting that the center of each circle in the pattern houses a window of varying sizes, some seeming to lead to other tanks, adjacent to the main belly but many times smaller in size. Empty.

Empty, too, is the largest chamber of the incubation tank, looming above their thin frame like a drooling mouth, with shards of shattered glass forming the teeth at the edges of the main window. Link hasn’t the strength to stand and look inside. He doesn’t think he could stomach the sight anyways; flashbacks to the manic fervor of trying to escape already rising to the surface of his memory.

Their eyes drift instead to the base of the structure, where thick tubes as wide as Link’s own torso run out towards the edges of the walls, joining with other machines and even to the wall itself. The tubes glow faintly where patches of the outer material has peeled away to display the translucent membrane beneath. It’s apparent that they would have been used to transport the clear liquid into, or out of, the massive cistern. There’s no current running in either direction, but Link wonders if they house the vile solution even now. They force themself to look away, swallowing hard.

From his vantage point in roughly the center of the stone floor, Link can make out precious little else about the darkened room. More tubes cross the ceiling, traveling again the distance between the walls and the central pillar and meeting it, Link presumes, at the top; though they aren’t going to risk passing out again to crane their head to see. More strange shaped rubble gathered around the corners of the room. Link can’t even begin to guess its source, as none of the constructs nearby seem to be crumbling or missing pieces.

Their wandering gaze solidifies on an incongruous shape sitting amongst the wreckage. Curious, and without any other course of action, they begin to crawl towards it.

The object in question reveals itself to be a small ring about the size of the palm of their hand. It appears to have once been a perfect circle, adorned in symmetry with the same constellation pattern as the walls of the cavernous room; now sharing in its fate. Broken and discarded, dust and other refuse clogging the fine grooves in its surface. A crack runs across the rounded surface, culminating in a sizeable chip missing from one side.

Link picks up the ring with a trembling hand, fumbling it once before gaining a steadier grip. It’s made of a similar material to the tank in the center of the room, but judging by its size must have once been a piece of something larger.

The image sticks in their mind as they continue to scan the room for anomalies among the mess of machines and wires running the perimeter of the vast space. A forgotten tool lying alone in the wreckage of a desolate land, buried with the past.

The parallels to his own situation seem significant somehow.

He finds his fingers curling around the ring instinctively, though his eyes now look past it, focusing on a dark gap in between some of the panels on the wall to his left.

The exit.

Or so he hopes. A brief flash of fear crosses Link’s mind, imagining a passageway closed off with more of the rubble before him. Trapped. Apprehension washes over him, imagining the suffocating embrace of the water inside the tenebrous vessel. Why was he even here? Alone? The rest of the room is empty, the machines deteriorating and, as far as Link can tell, inactive. Is there more to this place? The sheer number of control units along the walls suggest there should have been a sizable number of people to operate the facility. His mind balks at the implications of his solitary confinement to this place. The sole inhabitant of the tank, the sole inhabitant of the room. How long..? Memories of the interior of the tank are replaced by thoughts of a sealed chamber, no doors to be found on the smooth interior; or a narrow exit blocked by collapsed rubble. His breath quickens and new images flash before his mind. Bloody fingernails capping raw fingers, scrabbling at the walls, bruised and bloodied knuckles; and still the harsh, unmoving stone of the enclosure, one person unable to do what only time can accomplish, unable to tear down the boundaries, to free themself. An agonizing death by starvation. He doesn’t want to think about the alternative.

It’s too much.

He tries to fight through the rising alarm, shoving it down to the pit of his stomach along with his nausea. Deep breaths. Clenching his fist further, driving nails and the imprint of a stone circle into the palm of their hand. Forcing themself to lift their gaze once more to their destination.

Link shakes their head to clear it and immediately regrets it, the throbbing in his head only intensifying with the movement. I need to leave this place.

***

The hallways beyond the central tank chamber are more of the same in appearance. The now-familiar constellation pattern decorates the upper part of the walls, while the lower portion is tessellated with the twisting pattern of curved lines in chunky relief, boundaried by a single line of the same raised, rough material running unbroken down the length of the hallway. It is this conformation that Link clings to as they make their way down the dim corridor, leaning their weight on the wall as they half stumble, half pull themselves along the wall with shaky arms; making up the difference for their protesting legs. It’s the fourth hallway like this they’ve encountered, though there had been only one exit from the incubation chamber. The path had split often, at first, and he had needed to retread the same paths multiple times in places as he met with many dead ends in the labyrinthine halls. They had passed other compartments on their quest to find the exit; small rooms bare except for a couple sparse beds with thin shelves jutting from the walls beside them. An impossibly tall chamber with a vaulted roof that seemed meant for storage, but held nothing but dilapidated shelves and crumbled debris. A locked door at the end of an agonizingly long hallway for which Link did not have the key, nor the strength to try to open. They fervently hoped it didn’t lead to the exit. The door had felt cool to the touch, but Link had been forced to abandon it to continue his search down the previous passageways.

This whole place is abandoned.

Though he knew it already to be true; the deafening silence betrayed no signs of life. Link’s own shuffling footsteps, quiet though they are, are the lone sound in the eerie gloom.

He feels more lucid, now, though his head still pounds and his vision still swims even from this slow movement down the corridor. They try to recall anything about themself, but find nothing to betray their past in their memories. Link. He feels that he ought to know something about the owner of that name. About himself. But any attempts to recollect further are met with failure and the feeling of trying to lift water through a sieve. Meaningless, obviously, but they are far too exhausted to feel frustration. And they can feel that their body will need to eat soon, even through the lightheadedness and nausea that still blanket them like thick fog.

A blue aura ahead signals the room at the end of the hallway; too far to make out, but steadily coming into view. Narrow panels hang along the walls, framing the doorway as Link draws near. Smooth and blank, but placed as though a sign to indicate the path. It would have seemed significant if not for the fact that every door prior had also been marked in a similar manner. Link’s fingers catch on the edge of a panel and they stumble, crumpling to the ground as they enter the room at last.

Not the exit.

But this room was different to the others they had encountered previously. Link swallows bile as he raises his head from the floor, dizziness returning in full force while they reposition their legs beneath them and reach for the edge of a low shelf to pull themself to their feet. Rows of glass tanks line the walls at the edges of the room, more uniform by far than the singular pillar shaped tank in the chamber Link had awoken in, with its divots and knobby carvings surrounding uneven windows. These seem almost sterile by comparison, though each window was still rimmed by twisting patterns of stone. They had no apparent function, as they lacked the tubes that had connected the larger tank to the machinery and walls of the huge cavern. There also didn’t seem to be anything inside. It was hard to make out whether the clear liquid contained within differentiated from tank to tank, and even that would have been to difficult to see if some of the tanks had not been cracked and partially drained. A high table spanned the length of most of the chamber, rising up from the ground like a solid plinth.

Having regained his footing, Link starts once more down the rectangular room, supporting his balance on the intermittent tables or walls. They are struck once again by the sheer hollowness of the place; the tables, the shelves, the jars embedded in the walls- even the room itself, he realizes, lacks the network of tubes crossing the ceiling that had so defined other rooms in the labyrinth. It isn’t so much that the room is empty so much as… devoid of habitation? A strange… desolation that they hadn’t registered until now, even despite the layers of dust that coat every surface. He passes a small, round alcove in the side of the wall, housing yet another barren container, this one free standing but otherwise matching the others in the room; the only thing setting it apart being the myriad “arms” that protrude from all sides, each containing a channel that points toward the central chamber.

Trying to combine something? It looks like it was built to fit this space. Or the other way around…. Link shudders again, contemplating the purpose of his presence in this place.

It’s a short enough distance to the other end of the vault, but it takes them several more agonizing minutes to cross the expanse. Step by step, feeling the omniscient gaze of the empty tanks on his back. his legs refuse to increase pace, however; continuing his uneven gait towards the far door, and at last steps into the small antechamber beyond.

Carvings in twisted stone relief completely cover the interior of the round room, only serving to highlight the closed door opposite him. He’s reminded once more of the bowels of a giant beast, the writhing pattern enclosing him, constricted; waiting to be digested. It’s cramped and oppressive compared to the previous rooms, and Link feels the walls start to close in around them. Reliving. Clenching his fist on the circular charm he had picked up from the floor earlier, he focuses on the sole thing keeping him in the room. Fresh air. It creeps in from the edges of the door, fighting a losing battle with the dank, musty scents of the broken down facility. Giving its life to promise freedom to another.

The door doesn’t budge when Link turns the handle so they throw their weight against it clumsily, falling upon the access with a dull thud. They are forced to repeat the action again and again before the door relinquishes its hold and creaks open, heavy stone scraping aside as Link slides to his knees. He is moving forward again almost instantly despite his exhaustion, spurred on by the faint breeze he feels across his skin.

It’s the longest hallway he’s encountered so far. Not even a pinprick of light can be seen ahead; the corners of the wall all converging to a single point in the darkness. The tunnel ascends at a gentle slope that wears on his legs after just a few minutes of walking, though Link already uses the wall to support their weight. they long to sink to the floor and rest, to give in to the deep exhaustion that has plagued them since they awoke. His throbbing head is at odds with the gnawing pangs of his stomach. He feels as though he has been wandering the deserted passages for hours, days. Sense of time degraded and fractured beyond recognition. If he could see what his state of mind looked like, he imagines it would be like the stone lines on the wall. Twisting, sinuous, ever moving forwards but slowly, painfully. Doubling back or circling around before continuing on. None of them connected. Fragmented. His breathing is getting heavy, and they can tell they’re moving slower than before, their movements less coordinated. If he stops walking now, the floor will swallow him whole. Returned to the void.

He walks on.

The dragging of footsteps is joined at last in its lone refrain, accompanied at last by the soft sound of a wayward breeze.

Blue eyes raise once more toward the outlet of the passage, confusion registering with the recognition of an inky chasm past the walls. Startled, their mind summons once more an image of cramped rooms and overbearing machinery waiting beyond, wandering forever; before the solution snaps them back to sentience.

Oh.

It’s nighttime.

Footsteps quicken and they stumble the last few steps toward the exit, relinquishing his grip on the wall as he rushes down the corridor. Frantic. Wind whipping through the tangle of long hair at their back and rushing through their ears, deafening. The slapping of feet on stone is replaced at once with the dry rustling of grass, and he falls to his knees as the world opens up before him at last; vast forest rising up around him as he emerges from the cavernous hole in the ground, long overgrown with flowering vines that herald the changing of an era.

Link feels as though they kneel before the precipice of a dreamscape.

Thick forest, the vast swath of trees forming columns under a vaulted ceiling of branches, starlight pooling off the leaves and filling the cool night air with energy. An infinite expanse of world surrounding. The ethereal made manifest amid the verdant sanctum of possibility.

Freedom.

And survival.

[charismabee]

I like STP swap aus in theory but I find how I've seen people do them a little strange (not bad tho they're still cool n stuff and I like them very much)

Like they're just... making the princess bird shaped without actually examining what swapping the Shifting Mound and Long Quiet's role in the narrative would mean. (Not meant to be negative)

Let's take the Narrator for example. In Slay the Princess he wants to kill the Princess because he wants to stop death forever. But the Long Quiet isn't death, he's stillness, lack of change. This completely changes the Narrator's core motivation. It can work though. Maybe he's in a world that has stagnated, no change, no innovation. It feels like rot, so he decided he had to find a way to be rid of it. Or maybe some other explanation. This would change his core world view, what he might consider a good end, how he acts a bit, lots of things.

Speaking of the good end, that's definitely not going to be an eternity of stagnant bliss, we literally just killed the personanification of stagnation. You could think around that too. Remember I the stranger route when everything was happening at once and it was the same as nothing happening? Maybe that happens. Without stillness the Princess is met with a barrage of constant change and stimulation, everything happening at once. The Princess could realise it is Nothing as much as it is Everything and that gets her out of it.

The Long quiet would be interesting too, because he doesn't change, it isn't in his nature to. Instead, he fractures. Perhaps instead of finding his multitudes you are shattering him. Breaking off parts of him so he can see them from the outside and know them. Once enough pieces of him have been broken off he will shatter completely and finally be able to see all of him, would talons pick up his broken pieces, would wings made of textured nothingness wrap around them and embrace them tightly? Would he reside on a hill of squirming hands or bodies, lost in the centre of the shifting mound?

Perhaps without a need for agency, or someone to make a decision the Voices would just exist as their own thing. First one that claims to be a Hero, who claims to have agency in their story (a part of reflected in her, the Long Quiet does not need to shatter to be able to see him), quickly joined by a Paranoid and terrified victim, an Opportunist Scammer, a Stubborn opponent. Different, but not changed. Not the one person molded into another.

Even the construct itself would be changed by who it is created to kill. Perhaps when the Princess first arrives on the path in the woods it is autumn, a sign of the seasons changing, there is life and death and nature and cycles, but on that 3rd Chapter, it is summer. The leaves are green and waxy, everything is preserved in a completely silent stillness. Maybe there is a horror in that no matter how you get there those silent woods are always the same, unchanging.

Unlike the Long Quiet, the Shifting Mound does change. She is naturally malleable. She has no need for voices because whatever action you take becomes what she would have always done. Perhaps her body changes, giving her new advantages, the body of a vicious Beast stalks towards the cabin, hunger tinting your choices through a cabin twisted to suit her needs. A goddess glides towards her temple, willing it to be large enough to fit her. A dainty Princess hurries to find her Prince charming in a fairytale cabin. The land twists under her will, whether she realises that or not, only giving resistance when too close to the 'monster' kept down there. She is change, it is only natural she causes it.

Even stuff like how to get rid of him would change, because can you actually kill the absence of something? The natural state of things before they shift? The shifting mound is motion and for everything to be in motion all the time means nothing can ever really happen at all. There is no fulfilment in anything you do if your opinion on what to do changes every moment you exist. Perhaps to truly 'kill' him she needs to make him smaller, change what cannot be changed to make the stillness that will be broken, the things to be changed. Perhaps he will break them out of there and thank her. Perhaps without a way to know himself he slowly fades into a nothingness, trapped in an eternity of stagnation that change herself refused to save him from.

It is still a love story, he is naturally inclined to help her, she will always love him, but things have changed.

Anyway this is just a dumb little ramble because I was thinking and it's nearly 3am so this is probably nonsense anyway. I do really like swap ideas they're interesting and stuff <3

[xfilesinamajor]

Second in Command

There are days—more and more, lately—when he forgets that home even exists. The fig trees, the goats, the view from the palace at the top of the hill, stone floors and a soft bed, the background noise of the slaves gossiping, the sound of Ctimene’s laughter. It feels as if all of that was not a different lifetime, but an ancient fever dream, something that never really existed at all.

What does cheese taste like? All he can think of is the underripe fruit they find on the shores of tiny inlets, and the fish they catch and share. There’s never enough of either. Not enough for 42, let alone the 600 who left Troy two years ago.

At least he thinks it was two years. Elpinor was the one counting, keeping track, diligently marking every time the sun rose. Maybe it’s just as well he died on Circe’s island. There were no dawns in the Underworld, no storms or meals to judge how much time was passing. Were they there one day, or twelve? The constant hunger, fitful sleep, and strange visions made it hard to tell.

He had looked for Elpinor, down there. Because his death had been so fresh, and so stupid. To survive the war, the cyclops, the storm, the sea god, the witch, only to fall from a roof? Where was the justice in that?

He should know better than to expect justice by now, in any form. Most of the time, he does. Justice is a useful tool in ruling an island or fighting a war, but when it comes to survival…

Anyway, he didn’t see Elpinor in the Underworld. He saw the face of the first man he killed in battle, staring unblinkingly up at him from the murky waters, as if judging him silently. Just as he’d done when he fell to the ground outside the walls of Troy, the light of life fading from his eyes as one hand weakly crept toward the spear in his throat.

He could have screamed into the waters, as some men had. Demanded to know what the dead wanted of him. It was a war. He hadn’t asked to go, but he had vowed not to bring shame to himself and his family once he got there. He had a beautiful bride waiting for him, and parents to make proud, and whatever these Trojans had done to incur the wrath of Menelaus, he was going to do his best to destroy them. He has no business feeling guilt over the death of one pathetic enemy soldier. By now he is responsible for the deaths of hundreds. None of the others followed their ship through the Underworld, judging him with dead eyes.

What did the others see? No one spoke of it. Nireus had cried silently but constantly until he fell at last into sleep, Theasides had screamed and thrashed around as though he were being attacked, and Odysseus himself had stood there with his lips moving silently in conversations no one else heard. But no one spoke of what they saw. Not then, and not in the weeks that have stretched into months since they returned to the realm of the living.

Are they living? These days hardly seem to count as life. Perhaps they are all dead already. But the men are still hungry, the blazing sun still burns their skin, they still wake and sleep. When there were more of them, a whole fleet trailing behind, there were jokes. He doesn’t often remember his life on Same, but he does remember the early days of the trip from Troy. High on victory and spoils, full of hope and excitement at the prospect of returning home. The shouting and laughter had been loud enough to travel over the waters, spreading from one ship to another, infecting the entire fleet with happiness.

Sometimes he thinks of Polites and wonders how much would have changed if he had lived. Probably the captain would have listened to his foolish trust and naivete one time too many, and they would be in the Underworld already. He’d like to believe that. Because if it’s not true, then Polites…no, he wasn’t right! He had loved Polites, too, but that man had never seen the world as it truly was. He’d never seen the danger and darkness all around them. He’d been great with a bow, but he’d had no common sense.

And yet…Odysseus had trusted Polites. Had he lived, the captain might have relied upon Polites to guard the wind bag. Perhaps Polites could have persuaded him to trust Eurylochus, too. They could have taken it in turns, ensuring that bag stayed closed, and the captain wouldn’t have nearly killed himself from lack of sleep.

Sharing that duty would have been the smart thing to do. Hadn’t he said as much to Odysseus? Hadn’t he offered to share the burden? But no, the captain had been stubborn, as he always was, trusting the wind bag to no one but himself, going without sleep until first his temper began to crack, then his focus began to wane, and finally until the waking hallucinations began.

Eurylochus is the second in command. He couldn’t just sit back and watch his captain, his friend, his brother destroy himself in such a way! And yes, maybe…yes, he had been hurt that Odysseus would not share the responsibility. Weren’t they brothers? Wasn’t he next in the line of command? Why wouldn’t Odysseus trust him to watch the bag while he slept? No man on board would have dared try to take it from him by force.

The captain didn’t trust him. That was what it came down to. Odysseus hadn’t trusted him. He had chosen to destroy himself rather than accept help from Eurylochus. That truth had burned a deep, angry hole inside him and at last he had lost his temper, tearing open the bag to prove to himself that there wasn’t really a storm inside. The captain’s stubbornness had convinced him that the gods were playing games, giving them an empty bag and laughing as they watched to see how long Odysseus would deprive himself of sleep to protect this bag of nothing. He’d wanted to prove that he was smarter than Odysseus, that failing to trust him had been a mistake.

Instead he’d proved the opposite, and the guilt of that has been a constant companion to him ever since. The deaths of those 552 men at the hands of the sea god—he carries just as much of the blame for that as the captain. Odysseus was the one who told the cyclops his true name and left him alive. But Eurylochus is the one who opened the bag that brought Poseidon to them.

What would Ctimene think of him, if she were to see him now? He can imagine how he looks: burnt, scarred, emaciated, filthy, shoulders rounded by years of guilt and weariness. If that didn’t stop her embracing him, the knowledge of all that he’s done surely would. He left home to bring her honor, and nothing he’s done since the war is worthy of honor. All he can do is continue to look out for the remaining men as best he can.

Not that it matters. He’s never going to see Ctimene again, if she ever truly existed at all. He will never taste another bite of soft goat cheese or watch the wind rippling through the leaves of the trees on his island. It is not that he’s resigned to his own death, though there are moments when he thinks he would find it a welcome relief. No, he will not go down without a fight, not as long as his men need him, not while he still has a job to do. There’s a chance, just a small one, that they will find a place that has food, shelter, relative safety. With full stomachs, a week of good sleep, and no one trying to kill them, it’s possible that the morale of the crew might improve. It could be that life will become worth living again.

But making it home? The only one who still believes that is Odysseus, and how he continues to do so is anyone’s guess. It’s impossible. Poseidon won’t allow it. Defying the gods seldom ends well for those foolish and bold enough to try. The captain’s luck has brought him this far, but it can’t last forever.

The only big question remaining is what will come next. Gods? Monsters? Death? Peace? Or simply day after day of slow starvation, watching what little hope remains in the faces of his friends fade into desperation and madness? He doesn’t like to think about that, so he focuses on smaller questions. Which way the wind is blowing. How much safe drinking water remains. Whether they will catch any fish, or if they seaweed they chew on will make them sick. How long he’ll be able to persuade his friends to exercise, practice combat, stay active.

Whether the growing rift between himself and Odysseus, which gets progressively harder to ignore, is from the guilt of the secret he carries, or perhaps the guilt that Odysseus himself carries. Has he done something to upset the cold, harsh man who he used to consider a friend? Or is his captain simply angry at him because he still lives, when Polites does not?

How much longer can this go on?

[soaqrudyz]

it’s a warm, spring afternoon, the grass is still wet from yesterday’s shower, and the sun does little to block the chill from the constant breeze. ghost is beside him on the hill, laid back with an arm slung over his face.

soap closes his eyes.

he imagines they’re at home, some little house in scotland squared away from all civilization. it’s just them, but they like it that way.

he imagines what it’d be like to have that life with ghost. picnic blankets and anniversary dinners, sleep warmed bedsheets and two sets of keys in the bowl by the front door. in his head they invite friends over for birthdays, and holidays, and maybe even just for lunch.

he paints the walls and simon builds bookcases.

it’s a fantasy he revisits often, though mostly on nights when nothing can lure his panicked mind back to sleep. it’s a comforting thought: him and ghost being regular people, learning to take it slow together.

it’s indulgent, childish. he knows this, acknowledges it, and doesn’t do a damn thing about it.

fantasy soap takes fantasy ghost’s hand as they’re bickering over the shopping list, and real soap, if he focuses hard enough, can feel those palms against his own, cherishes it.

eventually, they’ll pack this up. they’ll walk back down the hill with their shoulders brushing, will look to see if the other had noticed, but nothing will come of it.

for now, for as long as it takes to muster the energy to pretend he wasn’t in love with his lieutenant, he’ll keep his eyes closed.

damp blades of grass brush his forearms and the sky is hopelessly blue. soap can feel ghost’s eyes on him, and wonders if he’d find himself in ghost’s fantasies if he asked. he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for whatever answer lays at the end of that question, though, so he doesn’t.

fantasy soap traces fantasy ghost’s frown lines and kisses the furrow from his brow.

real soap silently aches.

[ladystarksneedle]

Come as you are

Aegon's POV

Pairing: Aegon x Helaena

Word count : 2774

Summary: After a night of indulgence, Aegon contemplates his life and his relationship with Helaena, on his way back home.

He can feel something wet on his face, the sensation growing by the instant, if he chooses to focus. Normally he’d be happy to wake up in such a way but his eyes feel like lead and his head is pounding, like the drums signaling the start of a tourney. Rough starts to his day have become the norm. He considers this almost a natural progression in his life, similar to his transition from boy to man, with the days becoming increasingly unbearable and his nightly pursuits each unimaginable, to his younger self. There is little that surprises him now. Yet as he manages to wake when the wetness begins consuming his eyes, it’s still the last thing he expects to see. A kitten licks away at him, feasting at what, he doesn’t know. It’s almost hilarious to be woken up by such a creature out of all the possibilities his drunk head had conjured . Quite frankly he’d imagined a different ginger waking him up instead. The little beast gazes up at him with it's big eyes not shying away as he struggles to sit. He’s strangely reminded of Jaehaera, who stares at him in a similar fashion, her big eyes silently commanding him. She’d been pestering him for one of these for a moon now, which was perhaps too bold a word to use for what she actually had actually been upto, sneaking up on him and pulling his doublet vigorously only to say one word before scurrying off.

“Kepa, kitten”

This was almost every instance she happened to see him. Thankfully it wasn’t usually at this hour, when he was at his lowest. He still wanted to maintain the veneer of being presentable to his children. As much of a wastrel he considered himself to be, his children were the best of him and his seemingly good impression in their eyes was often a reprieve from his constant self loathing.

He ends up pocketing the kitten in his cloak as a gift for her, before staggering forwards to survey his surroundings. This is not the first time he’s woken up in a strange place, after a night of indulgence. Usually its in a brothel or at the back of the fighting pits or in a room in one of the preferred taverns he frequents to a certain redhead much like the kitten he’s now carrying. Sometimes he’s even woken up in the dragonpit of all places, curled up against Sunfyre, his warmth soothing him through many a cold winter night. Those mornings were much more satisfying than whatever pleasure he’d sought out the night before. Sunfyre always had a way of lightening his spirits.

Today he’s woken up in what looks like a small enclave at the back of a stable. Swaying from side to side he manages to gain a semblance of his composure as he makes his way out into the city.

King’s landing is a bustling capital, buzzing with people of all kinds. Vendors and hawkers go about their work, a contingent of gold cloaks patrol the markets and as he moves forwards he can even see a group of septas rushing towards the Great Sept on Visenya’s Hill. There are no thoughts running through his head as he makes his way, trying to go unnoticed through the crowds, however the feeling of increasing dread of having to return back to the Red keep soon creeps up on him. He knows someone might stumble upon him sooner or later and escort him back, as was their duty so he doesn’t really need to rush. It isn’t lost on him though, that it’s much later in the day than when he usually returns. Perhaps his mother, sick with worry, would send Aemond after him, he thinks with a chuckle imagining his uptight and dutiful brother wandering the Street of silk in search of him. He knows the twat would look there first.

His thoughts somehow return back to his mother though and he finds himself wishing otherwise. Whenever he’d return each morn, he’d be greeted by her frowning face, her disappointment clearly evident even through the haze in his eyes. Sometimes she’d let him off with just a look, if she was particularly busy that day but most days he’d end up getting a earful. It was one of the many times he’d regret being born. Her shouting only worsened the pounding in his head though the words they exchanged, as much as he would like to hide it, hurt him more. She’d leave him be with one of the manservants afterwards, tasked with cleaning him up and making him presentable for the rest of the day.  Sometimes he wondered why there was all this fuss around him. He’d given up following most pursuits of men his age. While his brother meticulously began his training every day at dawn, he’d long lost his fancy of swordsmanship, neither had he any interest in whiling his time away in the library, in pursuit of an additional maester’s chain. Most of his day was actually spent at court, fawned over by all the green lords who’d come to make their mark in the capital, most likely invited at the behest of his grandsire. Keeping up appearances was everything in king’s landing ,as was repeatedly drilled into all of their heads, by him and it was the one thing utterly he failed at. Although if he was being honest, he could care less for what the others thought of him. He was a prince, the king’s firstborn son, not that it mattered to his father and the rider of Sunfyre, the most majestic dragon in the world.  Why then should the opinions of petty lords amount to anything, when he ought to be lauded for just being himself. A Targaryen doesn’t seek the approval of sheep, something his grandsire would never be able to understand.

His sister was much more compliant and had a better relationship with him, though she too didn’t seek out court life as much as was required of her. She stuck to herself, the children and entertained a few ladies only when it was deemed necessary after yet another lecture by mother. His relationship with her was cordial most times though strained would be the best word to describe it. They had been too young when they were married off, with both of them not wanting it. He had nothing against her but they had nothing in common and marrying a woman for fulfilling yet another duty imposed on him, irked him to no end. After Aemond’s eye was taken though, both of them had very little choice in the matter and had to comply without objection. He considered their union to be like most political marriages born out of convenience, yet he knew at times he’d hurt her much more than he was ever inconvenienced in their relationship. His neglect of her and the children in turn, when he thought about it, turned into a perpetual sting at the back of his head, a constant reminder of all his failures. His feelings of uselessness exacerbated sequentially on becoming a husband and then a father. He never knew what to do with himself, how to pull himself out of his self inflicted misery and how to try and be there for the family he created. Every time he entertained the idea of trying, a small part of his brain nagged him about his worthlessness and how if he tried and failed this time, it would be the worst thing he ever did and nothing could make him regain how he valued himself ever again. So he sought to drowning out his troubles with whatever pleasure he could procure, finding novelty in the misery of flea bottom through the nights. Yet thoughts of his wife still lingered, despite the numbness which seeped through his bones. He would be reminded of her in flashes, of some random fact about a bug she’d spoken of at dinner or the way she wrung her hands when she was nervous or the tilting of her head when she got lost within herself. He even thought of her absent smiles when she thought no one was noticing. Helaena tormented him eternally, making him want to pull his hair out. All the wine in this shithole couldn’t seem to get her out of his system. He’d soon begun finding himself gazing unintentionally at her at dinner, trying to please her whenever he encountered her throughout the day or to just not make her hate him at times, just to quieten this abhorrent sense of longing in his head. He didn’t know how to express himself. None of them had ever been taught to, in their family. Love was a word unknown to all of them and had been rare growing up. It was strangely even rarer to him now that he was married.  He could hardly understand it’s meaning. He’d felt desire ever since he turned thirteen, looking at a young maiden in passing or yet another serving girl or whore vying for his affections. He’d felt longing for his mother’s love, her attention and pride. He'd felt responsible for Helaena and the children and affection at times towards her in their marriage, but love was ever a stranger to him. What he felt for Helaena wasn’t love he thought, or it couldn’t be. His mother had emphasized the importance of duty in their childhood, of looking after your own. After Aemond's eye had been cut out, it was the only duty he’d decided to stick by. He had vowed to protect his siblings and his family and he would abide by his duty for her. He’d thereafter resorted to showing her his intentions through other means, by gifting her small trinkets. A bug toy, a charm bracelet, a set of matching rings for their dragons were some of the things he'd gotten her over the years of their marriage, usually after he’d seen her cast a sad glance at him that day and when he felt he’d pushed it too far. Somehow the sadness in her eyes stung worse than it did in mother’s and that was terrifying to him.

He was too drunk to make to back in one piece this morn, giving him hardly enough time to find something for her. The kitten meowing in his pocket would have to do, for both mother and daughter.

Stumbling through the gates of the outer courtyard of the Keep, he was greeted by his sworn protector wearing a scowl on his face. Ser Erryk could be such an upstanding cunt when he had to, making him feel like clapping himself on the back for managing to dodge him yet again. He was hurled up to his quarters shortly, all the while trying to keep the kitten quiet to save himself the embarrassment of being further questioned.

Helaena was sitting on the settee placed in the middle of the room, as usual, busy with her embroidery as he was hauled in. She’d gotten so accustomed to his shenanigans she would hardly looked up whenever he was dragged in. Today was different. Her eyes crinkled with a myriad of emotions as she gazed upon him, fright, distaste and worry which she was quick to mask as she dismissed his guard with a kind word.

They were alone in their chambers for only a short while before she led him to the settee and called upon her maids to have his bath prepared. As she went about getting his things ready he glanced upon her threadwork, which looked like a pair of flies dancing about.

She was quick to come to him and help him though, along with one of his servants.

She smelt good he thought as they lowered him together into the tub. Was he really that drowsy now, that he required her help he thought sighing at the warmth encasing him. Her scent of lavender was heavy on his senses as she spoke something to the man before dismissing him. She smelled sweet and woodsy, stronger than her usual scent of fresh garden plucked lilies, not that he minded. His thoughts drifted back to the kitten suddenly and he wondered if it had somehow escaped his cloak. He was too tired to look for it now and frankly couldn’t be bothered as the exhaustion of the night began overwhelming him.

It occurred to him that this was the first time she was helping him bathe as he relaxed further and he gulped unconsciously dreading what she was about to say next as she began soaping him.

“Why do you do this to yourself Aegon?”

“It is in my nature” he responded turning his face away as she began running some of the bath oils through his hair.

“Mother has decided to finally give up on you” she said with a sigh. “She came again this morning, passed by on her way to the small council meeting, without a word asking about your whereabouts.”

“Tis about time,” he grunted. “ She should redirect her efforts towards her more dutiful son and I’m easy enough to forget”

“Not to me” she whispered kneading his scalp as she leaned over him.

“Has something happened?” he asked, turning to gaze into her eyes, trying to ignore the strange feeling bubbling in his stomach.

She shook her head, choosing to ignore him for the rest of his bath as she worked away at lathering him clean. As the water turned soapy, he almost felt as if he was dreaming, drowsy from the after effects of all the wine. He couldn’t fathom a scenario where his wife would let her feelings be known to him so openly and that to something akin to almost brazen confessions of her affection. It wasn’t in her nature and neither in his.

“You remind me of those stick insects you know, the wobbly ones. They’re called one night stick insects,” she said as she dried her hands and got up to hold a towel infront of him.

“Why?” he asked stepping out carefully.

“They’re nocturnal, quite like you, scurrying about during odd hours. They also never fertilize the same egg twice.”

He winced as she finished drying him clean.

“Perhaps you should give me the same treatment as the Black widow then. It seems as if I’ve served my purpose and it would be quite a fitting way to go”

She smiled at that, which made his heart ache. He still wished to blame it on the wine but he knew what he’d said had elicited a genuine response from her.

She moved towards him, green doublet in hand as she began helping him dress, still smiling to herself. As she finished clipping the gold chains around his neck she pulled him closer, “I think we’re a pair of Mayflies you and I. Not spiders or stick bugs. Do you want to know why?”

He had been leaning almost imperceptibly towards her as she'd worked, bending down to brush his nose against hers urging her to continue.

“They’re parents just like us, staying together for their larvae. They fight and ignore each other for years but still come together for them when it matters and do you know how they thank them? By eating them when it’s time to leave their nest.”

He grunted hiding his smile as she struggled to hide her own laughter in his collar.

“So instead of one of us, both shall face the same fate. How fitting.”

“To come together and leave together, as one” she whispered.

“A cruel fate”

“Cruel or not it is most likely ours. We are what we make of our circumstance.”

“Were you always this wise, my observant mayfly ”he asked tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

“You’re too drunk to notice”

“My sincere apologies”

“I know you don’t mean it.”

“Probably not but you’re too beautiful to resist at the moment” he replied leaning in to capture her lips. She tasted sweet and of lemon cakes she’d probably had in the morning and though he wasn’t fond of the tarty sugary sweet he cherished her closeness and the comfort of her presence. He probably smelt of wine and tasted just as bitter but was satisfied when it didn’t stop her from reciprocating his advances. Perhaps she’d gotten used to him after all, his little mayfly he thought as they were painfully interrupted by the feeling of something wet on his leg.

“Is that a kitten” she squealed.

“For Jaehaera” ,he replied sheepishly running a hand through his hair. “This little runt woke me up today by licking all over my face”

“A fine surprise husband, perhaps I shall have to try that trick to rouse you too” she replied back cheekily.

He could only stare after her stunned, too shocked to formulate a reply at her sudden cheek, as she scooped up the little beast and sprinted through the doors to find their daughter. He brought a hand to his lips lingering on the warmth he felt inside as he stood alone in their chambers. Perhaps he should start taking an interest in these strange legged creatures after all.

[websterss]

THEY'RE BLUE — STILES STILINSKI

SUMMARY: Here’s a little werewolf au I conjured up. The supermoon overpowers Stiles control resulting in a casualty.

WARNING(S): ANGST, mentions of dying

WORD COUNT: 1,477

PAIRING: Werewolf!Stiles Stilinski x fem!Reader

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy it! ♡ Feedback is always welcomed!

MASTERLIST

You didn’t expect to become the only human in the pack. You see there were two humans in the pack, You and Stiles, but after what happened to Stiles, he didn’t have much of a choice. Stile’s life was at stake. He was practically on his deathbed. So, you had to turn to your only option left, Scott. Scott bit Stiles to save his life. It was hard enough as it was, but Stiles becoming a werewolf, now that was even harder. He had a hard time trying to control his shifting. But he had his friends to help him along the way.

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Malia asked. She clearly wasn’t in the mood to attend another pack meeting.

“Because there’s a supermoon tonight, and we need to make sure nobody does anything stupid.” All eyes turn to face Liam.

“Oh, come on, it was one time.” He whined.

“Yeah, and it’s forever engraved in our heads,” Stiles told him. 

“It was really hot out that night.” He shrugged.

“Beacon Hills usually is during the summer.” Stiles quipped.

“Okay we get it guys, knock it off you two.” You gave a playful stern look to them. Whether those two believed it or not they were the best of pals. Liam looked up to Stiles and Scott, but he would appreciate it more if the guidance didn’t consist of the constant sarcasm and teasing. 

“Y/n’s right, we have a serious matter, this isn’t like any other moon we’ve been through, the supermoon will make us more aggressive, stronger, even violent, and we have to stay alert at all times, we can’t risk anyone getting hurt,” Scott informed his pack.

“Or killed,” Malia said. 

“Exactly.” Scott nodded.

“So how will we be able to control it?” Hayden questioned.

“We have chains, shouldn’t that at least help get you all through the night?” Lydia said.

“It’s not enough, everyone would break free instantly.” Scott shook his head. 

“What about mountain ash, would that hold you guys back?” Mason suggested. 

“That’s not a bad idea.” Stiles nodded.

“Great problem solved! Um, but what are we going to do about the human in the room?” You pointed at yourself.

“The human…will stay as far away from any of us.” Stiles flailed his arms around gesturing to the supernatural beings in the room.

“I want to help.” You pleaded.

“No, I’m not risking putting you in danger.”

“I am perfectly capable of staying away from danger.” Stiles stood silent. His shoulders slumped. You were gonna give him a migraine. He looked away shaking his head.

“What, I can!” You raised an eyebrow.

“Just stay home tonight Y/n, please, just go home.” He pointed to the door. Every one of them avoids your gaze. 

“Scott.” You looked at the alpha. 

He sheepishly looked up at you, then at Stiles, who shook his head no. 

“Stiles is right. You could get hurt, Y/n. So stay home okay.”

“Fine.” You muttered. Little did he know you weren’t going to listen to him. 

-

“Okay, I think that’s enough mountain ash to keep you guys’ in.” Mason got up and dusted his palms on his jeans.

“Good job Mason.” Lydia stood beside him behind the line of mountain ash. They decided to keep them all in the library for the night. Scott, Hayden, Liam, Malia, and Stiles were all chained up to poles, the mountain ash was for just in case. All of them could feel how the super moon was affecting them. They let out grunts and growls. Fur growing on their face, claws coming out of their fingernails. It was a recipe for a disaster.

“I think that’s our cue to leave!” Mason started tugging on Lydia’s upper arm.

“Good idea.” She nodded her head in agreement. They ran out into the hall hoping that the mountain ash was enough to keep them from running wild into the night. When they thought they were good, it just got worse. They saw you walking past them. Lydia immediately calls after you to retreat.

You walked towards another set of doors pushing it forwards, the door creaking in response. You stood in the hallway. Staring down the dark eery hallways. There wasn’t anyone around. You never liked school at night. That gut feeling in your chest was telling you to turn back, and you almost did, except the low growl behind you caused a chill down your spine. You spun around slowly, your breathing labored as you now face what you were scared of encountering tonight. Your boyfriend was in full rage. You keep still in your tracks as two glowing eyes stare right back at you.

“Stiles.” You slowly stood. The only response was a grunt and heavy breathing. That further told your flight or fight response to take a step away from him.

“This isn’t you okay, it’s the moon taking control of you.” 

“This is me!” He roared, making you flinch.

“No, it’s not!” You cried out. You took each step back with caution.

“Baby, just, just find an anchor, okay? Yeah, an anchor, okay. Think of me.” You nodded.

“The only thing I’m thinking is wanting to sink my teeth in that pretty neck of yours!” 

Oh you were in total shit.

“Stiles please, okay. You have to fight this!” You pleaded. You couldn’t stop crying.

“Y/N!” You whipped your head to see Lydia and Mason approaching you. Stiles took your distraction as an advantage, rushing forward, full charge, the collision of your bodies was enough to knock you off balance. You slipped on your feet falling on your back.

“Stiles...” You whispered out in pain. You watched him slowly hover over you looking at you as if you were prey. Your eyes widened fearing the worst to come.

“No!” Lydia screamed, she was running to you as fast as she could in her heeled boots. Mason watched in terror as you screamed out in agony. 

You didn’t know what was happening. It felt like a blur. You felt a tremendous amount of pain in your chest, your senses were going numb. You were going in and out of an unconscious state of mind. Then everything seemed to go dark. Stiles had finally stopped, his brain slowly starting to process what he just did. His claws were dripping with blood. Your blood. His eyes went back to their original chocolate brown. He hesitantly brought a hand to your face caressing it softly. His eyes trailed down to the gory sight of your chest and stomach covered in claw marks. His doing. He let out a shaky breath as his eyes found your face again. His hand hovering over you, not wanting to further touch you, but his heart was trying to reach out for you

“Y/n? Y/n, hey, please wake up.” He whispered. “Y/n, please!”

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice rang out like an echo. Footsteps could be heard beating down the hall, growing closer to the messy sight of you laying still in Stiles’ arms.

“No, no, no! Y/n!” Stiles yelled out. He brought you into his chest, rocking you back and forth and kissing your temple. Your head pulled back. Eyes closed. Your whole body was limp. You were practically weightless. He could no longer hear your heart beating.

“No, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He choked up. “Open your eyes, let me see them again, please...” He weeped.

Scott, Malia, Liam, and Hayden didn’t hear the rhythmic beating in your chest no more. You were gone. Lydia was on the floor weeping for you.

Stiles had a feeling that someone was going to end up hurt, he knew the risks of the supermoon, but he didn’t think you were going to be the casualty of tonight, nor did he think that he would be the one to take away your life. Sirens could be heard from a distance. It wasn’t the ambulance though, it was Stiles’ father and Deputy Parrish.

“Stiles...” Sheriff Stilinski ran up to his son, his gaze stopped on you. “Oh god...Is she?”

“Yeah,” Lydia responded.

“Oh god…” Sheriff Stilinski ran a hand down his face. It was bad enough he was dealing with all the supernatural stuff, but to see you, his son’s girlfriend lying dead in his arms was worse. He saw you like his own daughter and wanted to keep you safe, but then again no one was ever safe in Beacon Hills.

“I killed her dad,” Stiles muttered. 

“Stiles-” His dad started.

“No! She’s dead because of me. She’s dead!” He shouted out. All gazes suddenly fell on him.

Everyone knew what would happen if they ever took an innocent’s life. They’ve heard the stories. They knew the outcome. They knew how Derek ended up.

“What?” He cried out. 

“Stiles…your eyes, they’re blue.”

[yanderes-galore]

Madness combat

Yandere!Platonic! 2BDamned vs Romantic!Yandere! Hank with 2BDamned's child!GN! Darling concept

(2BDad protects his child from Hank)

Oh boy....

General Hank Concept

Platonic 2BDamned Concept

Yandere! Platonic! 2BDamned vs Yandere! Hank

Pairing: Platonic (2B)/Romantic (Hank) - Rivalry

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Isolation, Violence/Murder mention, Jealousy, Stalking, Kidnapping, Forced companionship (2B)/relationship (Hank).

While 2B "trusts" Hank it can only go so far.

2B loves his kid more than anything else.

It's to the point he manipulates and isolates you for your own protection.

He tries his best to keep Hank away from you but Hank still finds out about you.

Your home is here in this lab where he can essentially control you as your father.

Y'know the whole "Mother Knows Best" song from Tangled?

Your dynamic between you and 2B is very similar... except he has a point when he says everything can kill you.

Despite 2B's efforts to call you away... you still manage to speak with Hank, Deimos, and Sanford.

Deimos and Sanford treat you like a sibling.

Hank's mostly silent... but his view on you is much different than the others.

Considering what 2B does to his kid to keep them as his (see his platonic concept), Hank having you alone is difficult.

2B tolerates Hank around you but no doubt begins to notice Hank's growing... attachment towards you.

2B notices when Hank comes for treatment he often stares at you.

2B tries not to show that he's upset when you talk to Hank during treatments.

Hank's soaking in every word and remembering your appearance as 2B silently seethes.

Hank doesn't entirely feel threatened with 2B around you.

The doc is your father... but if Hank feels romantic intentions towards you, he isn't letting 2B get in the way either.

2B just about nearly throws Hank out of his lab when he notices the physical advances.

2B has planned everything out, you were meant to stay in the lab with him... any form of rebellion or wish to go outside would be smothered.

Yet here Hank is... doing the exact thing he feared would happen if you had a social life.

Hank's treating you in a delicate manner, large calloused hands lightly holding your hands and touching your skin.

He feels at ease around you.

He's... he's never felt a thing like love before.

It satiates his constant need for bloodlust.

So he finds himself leaning closer, wanting to purr towards you and hold you close...

Only for 2B to toss Hank out before trying to remove the idea of Hank from your mind.

This is where things would go down hill from here.

Hank's already fallen for you and isn't willing to just leave without you.

Meanwhile 2B now sees Hank as a complete and total threat to you and fears he'll lose you.

I see the rivalry going like this... Hank steals you from the lab and 2B hunts him down.

Like a wild animal, Hank manages to break into the lab you've always called home and takes you away.

The criminal has his strong arms wrapped around you as he carries you away to somewhere more private.

He sees you as his... so he'll keep you.

Plus... isn't it nice to be outside again?

Now you two are finally alone....

While Hank hides you away for himself, 2B is on the verge of a mental break.

He knows Hank took his kid.

The issue is finding him....

When it comes to how obsessive 2B is about his kid... he won't rest until he has you again.

2B will use everything he has to track you and Hank down.

Once he does... he'll straight up kill Hank if Hank doesn't kill him first.

Then afterwards, he'll take you back home and clear the idea of Hank's existence out of your mind... then you can both be happy again.

[novaursa]

This is a really vauge and obscure kind of ask but could you write anything for Styr? The wildling thenn that only was in a few episodes, but he was always interesting to me..

A Wild Heart

Requests are closed!

- Summary: You always followed your twin. You even went with him into the heart of the Free Folk territory without a question. And in the process of following Jon, you catch someone’s attention.

- Note: The reader is Jon's twin sister.

- Paring: snow!reader/Styr the Thenn

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Nothing is too obscure for me, dear anon. I got you. ❤️

The wind bites as you ride through the snow-covered hills, the cold seeping through every layer of fur and cloth you wear. Jon is beside you, his face hard beneath the shadow of his hood, eyes ever watchful as he scans the land ahead. You've always been the more reckless of the two, your spirit untamed as wild as the lands you now find yourself in. Jon, for all his brooding, has always been the one to pull you back, to keep you grounded when your instincts urge you to run free. But even he can't fully hide the unease in his expression as you venture deeper into the world of the Free Folk.

The air is thick with tension as you arrive at the camp. The smell of smoke and meat drifts toward you, but the eyes that follow your every move are not kind. You feel them sizing you up, wondering what a woman from the south is doing here, with your dark hair that mirrors Jon’s and a face they've learned to distrust.

As you dismount, Jon stays close, a silent reminder of the bond you share, the only constant in this unfamiliar world. But even your brother can’t protect you from the attention of him. You feel it before you even see him—Styr, the Magnar of Thenn. His gaze burns like a brand as it settles on you, piercing through the layers of snow and distance. There's something unsettling about the way he watches you, something raw and primal.

You’ve heard the stories, of course. The Thenns are not like the other Free Folk. They have a culture of their own, strict and unyielding, and Styr is their leader, their Magnar. His name carries weight, whispered with both fear and respect among the people of the North. But none of that truly prepares you for his presence in the flesh.

When you finally lock eyes with him, it's as if the world stills. He’s tall, impossibly so, his body draped in furs, his head bald and his face marked with deep, harsh lines that speak of a life of constant struggle. His eyes, though—those cold, sharp eyes—are what pin you in place. There’s no warmth in them, but there’s something else. Interest.

Jon stiffens beside you, his hand falling casually to the hilt of his sword, but you know better than to show fear. You meet Styr’s gaze, refusing to look away even though every part of you screams to do so. You will not be cowed, not by anyone, least of all by this Magnar who seems to think he can read you like a map.

"Your sister," Styr says, his voice rough and low, directed at Jon. "She has fire in her."

Jon’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t speak, waiting for you to answer for yourself. You straighten, squaring your shoulders, your breath coming out in visible puffs of air as you take a step forward, closer to Styr.

"I have more than fire," you reply, your voice steady, though your heart hammers in your chest. "I have steel too."

A small smile, more a curl of the lips than anything else, tugs at the corner of Styr’s mouth. "A bold one. We’ll see how long that fire lasts beyond the Wall."

It’s a challenge, and you know it. You feel Jon's concern in the air between you, but you press forward, unwilling to shrink in the face of this man’s provocation. "It'll last as long as it needs to."

There’s a flicker of something in Styr’s expression—amusement, maybe—but it passes as quickly as it came. His eyes sweep over you once more, a slow, deliberate appraisal, before he turns and gestures for the others to follow him.

Jon moves to walk beside you, his steps heavy with warning. "You don’t want to get too close to him," he mutters under his breath. "The Thenns... they’re different."

You glance at your brother, seeing the worry etched in his brow. "I can handle myself, Jon."

He doesn’t reply, but the tension between you remains. Jon is your twin, the one who’s always tried to protect you, even when you didn’t ask for it. But you’ve never needed saving, not from men like Styr, or from anyone else.

Later, when the camp settles and the fires burn low, you feel Styr’s eyes on you again. This time, he doesn’t try to hide it. He approaches you with the slow, deliberate movements of a predator sizing up its prey.

"You think you’re strong," he says quietly, his voice barely more than a growl. "But strength in these lands is not the same as in the South."

You lift your chin, defiant. "Then I'll learn."

He steps closer, so close that you can feel the heat of his body despite the cold, and your heart skips a beat. There’s something dangerous in his proximity, something that stirs beneath your skin, a tension you can't name.

"You will," Styr murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. "Because if you don’t, you won’t survive."

His words linger in the air between you, a promise as much as a threat. You don’t flinch, don’t look away. Instead, you hold his gaze, the fire inside you burning all the brighter for the challenge he represents.

In the silence that follows, you realize something that both excites and unnerves you: Styr, the Magnar of Thenn, doesn’t want to break your fire. He wants to feed it.

[degenerateworm]

Heather Mason x GN!Reader who is about as smart as Okuyasu from jjba part 4

Synopsis: While Heather is already dealing a lot of baggage in this town, now she also has to take care of someone who just got lost in the town and try their damnest making sure the Reader doesn't accidentally get themselves killed out here.

Hope that's aight, thanks and have a great day 👍👍👍

Thanks for your request dear anon!

---

The poor girl already has the stress of the cult trying to take her for their sadistic rituals, and the constant threat of the town itself.

And now Heather's met you, she's even more pressed!

You are powerful, sure. That's something that she's glad about; your ability to kill these horrible monsters on your tail, and your determination to survive with her.

And admittedly, she admires your loyalty to her. Heather has had few friends in her life, and to find one here of all places is ridiculous. The fact that you stay around her mostly is a godsend.

Now, the attribute given to you by the devil is your overwhelmingly low intelligence.

It makes you absolutely unpredictable, and Heather hates it. She's having to constantly look over her shoulder to make sure you are still there, and haven't been lured off by a butterfly or something stupid.

And god forbid she needs your help and the solution isn't simply brute force. If Heather pushes a puzzle box into your hands, your way to open it will be to smash it with the nearest blunt object.

And that's not exactly helpful in a town that seems to revolve around puzzles.

To be honest, you are both a pain and a help to Heather's plight.

She really likes you and your optimism, it helps her a lot during her moments of doubt.

But I don't think that she has room to develop romantic feelings during the events of Silent Hill 3, especially with all that is going on.

Afterwards, definitely! But for now, you are both her rock, and her detriment.

---

"Ugh..!"

Heather grunts as she pummels the demonic dog in front of her, its face giving way to the metal pipe the girl drives into its head. It gives a single whimper before its tongue lolls out of its mouth and into the pool of blood now spreading around the dog on the ground.

Heather sighs in relief, her hands shaking slightly as she looks up. The way is clear now, but something bugs her.

Her radio still won't stop playing static. There's something wrong around here.

And even worse, she can't see you.

"____?"

Heather calls out your name in concern, looking around her desperately as she tries her best to follow the increase of the static towards an enemy that could possibly have you in its grasp.

Hands gripping her metal pipe, she rounds a corner past a rust covered garage, her knuckles turning white from the grip on her weapon.

Until her breath is taken away by the sight in front of her, the pipe almost slipping from her hands in shock.

"____..!"

You perk up at the sound of Heather's voice, that goofy little smile appearing on your face.

You were wrestling with one of the twisted looking dogs, your wooden board wedged firmly between its nasty looking teeth.

While it tries to snap its angry jaws at you, you cackle slightly, still out of breath by your altercation with the thing when you look up at Heather.

"H-hey, Heather..! You think I can tame one of these things..?"

You ask jovially, and the poor girl in front of you has to steel herself as to not hit you with her own weapon.

"What the hell, ____! God no!"

---

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it, I really based the reader on Okuyasu because he's my favourite JoBro 😭 Do tell me if you want anymore, and thanks for your request!

[senditcolton]

So Tragic and Rare

"Are You What I Need?" (pt. 20)

word count: 2.9k warnings: none! just a lot of emotions previous part 🧡 next part masterlist

Another season ended. Another elimination from the playoffs. Another Eastern Conference Final without a single win.

And Andrei Svechnikov felt awful.

The feeling wasn’t new. It was the default when the hockey season ended without him lifting that silver chalice above his head. But this year felt different. And he knew exactly why. Unlike previous years where the goal of winning the Stanley Cup next season was focus of the off-season, he had different plans. He had planned to come home to an amazing woman.

That ideal off-season – one of him and Keely spending the summer together while he trained and she created and they both travelled the world was still fresh in his mind, even though now it seemed destined to stay a fantasy. And unlike the Stanley Cup, he wasn’t sure what he could do to get Keely Halloran back in his life.

Andrei tried to forget about her: her smile, her voice, her touch. Even though he never really wanted to erase her beautiful blue eyes and playful laugh from his memory. It just would’ve been easier for him. The playoffs did help, while they lasted. But now that they were over, he was left with a daunting summer alone. And those hopes and dreams returned to the forefront of his mind, now more painful since he saw no chance at making them a reality.

Instead of that sparkling summer he dreamed of, he sits in his Carolina house, the space empty and silent. His family had already gone back home, leaving him alone to wrap up any remaining responsibilities he had to attend to before joining them. He should be packing, should be organizing, should be doing something other than sitting on his living room couch, wallowing.

His phone buzzes from its spot on the table, a notification lighting up the screen. Andrei’s eyes glance down, registering the words on the Google Alert banner.

Keely Halloran performance at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame

Andrei knows that he should’ve silenced these alerts long ago. They were partially the reason it all went downhill – the constant bombardment of headlines that involved rumors of her with someone who wasn’t him surely wasn’t good for his self-esteem. But after he left her Beacon Hill brownstone that evening in April, he didn’t have the heart to stop them. Call it morbid curiosity, call it being a glutton for punishment, he didn’t care. He wanted to know what she was doing, where she was going, who she was hanging out with. And in the months that they were apart, no alert had sent him spiraling. They were all pretty standard: interviews, paparazzi shots, recordings.

He had seen an announcement about new music amid the Eastern Conference Final series, the idea of listening to it pushed to the side. But now… he had nothing better to do.

Andrei walks to his office/gaming room to grab his wireless headphones, quickly connecting them to his cellphone before clicking the video link.

He can’t stop the pull of his heart as Keely walks onto the stage, the black lace jumpsuit as intoxicating as everything about her. The music begins and Andrei watches as she lifts the microphone to her mouth, the melody falling from her lips.

It was beautiful. She always sounded beautiful but this… it was mournful, it was apologetic. But more importantly, it felt like she was singing directly to him. Every lyric was an explanation, each line an apology.

The video ends and Andrei registers her gentle smile, ladened with melancholy. He sees her blue eyes, the normally electric irises now dark as a stormy sea. He fights back against the urge to replay the video, watch it on repeat, get his fill of seeing Keely’s face and hearing her voice. But something tells him that there was more of whatever story she was trying to tell.

His fingers move quickly, opening his Instagram, ignoring the thousands of tags and mentions and direct messages and typing ‘keelyhalloran’ into the search bar. Her profile pops up in an instant and he clicks the very first post.

It’s an album cover, the burnt orange as eye-catching as the image within the album title. Andrei’s eyes scan over the track titles before moving onto the caption that Keely added to the image. And every word feels as if it tugs at a deeper part of him, an instinct that says he wasn’t crazy. His instinct was right – this album was for him and he needed to listen.

So, he did.

The album is easy to find, the first thing that pops up when he types her name. Without hesitation, he hits play on the first track an allows the music to fill his ears. And when each song ends, he feels as if he knows more than he did before.

Every single song is another form of apology, another explanation, an insight into her thoughts and her side of their relationship, and their ending. Andrei could hear it on his first listen, but on his second listen with the lyrics scrolling in time with her voice he understood more, and on every subsequent listen, it felt as if each song was a letter addressed specifically to him.

Andrei was sure that if it were anyone else, they would see Keely’s words as an excuse, a way of writing off the hurt she caused. But he saw it as another look behind the curtain that obscured the real Keely Halloran – a woman that he admired and loved but admits that he didn’t know much about.

He should’ve learned, should’ve tried to understand the hurt that he saw still festering within her instead of pretending like this was just another relationship and she was just another girl.

He should call her. He should text her. He should reach out to her in some way. But what would he say? What words could he string together to make her realize that he understood now, that he took responsibility for the way things ended, that he was sorry: for not understanding, for the way he treated her, for everything he did or didn’t do, for –

The sound of a knocking on his front door filters through his headphones, echoing around the living room. Andrei’s hands hit the pause button on his phone, silencing Keely’s voice before removing the headphones from over his ears. He is half sure he imagined the sound or that it was some wild animal outside making the noise. But the knocking comes again, stronger this time. There was no doubt now that it came from someone on the other side of his front door.

Andrei lifts himself off the plush cushions, his mind flitting through the list of who it could possibly be. There were only a few people that were close enough to him to know his address, excluding delivery drivers and mail carriers. He wasn’t expecting a package of any kind, nor was he expecting an audience. The only logical possibility was a teammate, coming over to share the misery of a season ended too soon.

Andrei peers out the windows embedded in his front door and through the warped view of the glass, he sees the outline of a feminine figure standing on his front porch, a baseball hat perched on their head, their blondish hair flowing down their back.

A heavy sigh rushes through Andrei, his annoyance coming to the forefront. This happened sometimes – fans finding his address and not understanding what should be implicit boundaries between him and them. But as soon as that thought passes through him, he can’t help but laugh at the hypocrisy of his words. If this is how he felt about a single fan every few months, imagine how Keely felt not being able to step out of her house without someone taking her picture. It makes him feel guiltier about his demands back in April, his jealousy blinding him to the reality.

Andrei shakes his head gently before unlocking the door, pulling it open. He is ready to politely tell whoever it was to please leave. But his words die on his lips when she turns around, removing her sunglasses and those unforgettable cerulean irises meet his.

“Hi,” Keely says, her voice soft as if from a dream. Hell, Andrei wasn’t sure that he didn’t fall asleep on the couch and this was just a fantasy brought on from Keely’s singing still filtering through his headphones.

It’s a soft clearing of her throat that finally knocks Andrei out of his paralysis and he finally finds his own words.

“Hi.”

Andrei is sure he looks like an idiot, standing there dumbly the threshold of his house while Keely waits on his porch, her hands in front of her body, the fingers playing with the hem of yet another oversized band t-shirt.

“Can I come in?” she asks, her gentle voice floating into his ears.

“Oh, yea – yeah. Of course,” he responds, the words somewhat stuck in his throat. He steps back, holding the door open to her as she walks into his house. Andrei smells the aroma of her familiar cherry perfume and he is tempted to pull her close and commit the smell to his memory once again. He resists, watching instead as her eyes scan over the space. She had been here once before, during a long homestead for the Canes. She had managed to sneak down to North Carolina and meet him in his space for the first and only time before… well, before now.

After gently shutting and relocking the door, Andrei follows her into his living room. Keely politely sits on the edge of his couch, her body perched upright as if she was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“How are you here?” he asks, his eyes surely wide at the fact that she was indeed here: in Raleigh, in his house, in his life.

“A private jet and a chauffeur helps.”

Her words and tone are teasing but Andrei can sense the apprehension hiding beneath them. Using humor to diffuse the situation – another thing that was uniquely Keely. He replies with a half-hearted chuckle as if to tell her that it’s okay; he’s just as nervous, just as uncertain as she is. He walks past to sit on the other end of the couch, angling his body towards her.

The silence falls and the only adjective Andrei can prescribe to the quiet is… heavy. Heavy with what? That much he wasn’t sure of. With the weight of everything they had said? The weight of everything left unsaid between them?

He follows her gaze as it dances around the space, registering the subtle changes in décor that his mom had added before her eyes drop to coffee table in front of them. He can see her zero in on his phone and with a quick glance, he sees that he left it unlocked, her album cover still emblazoned on the screen.

Keely’s eyes dart up to him and he stills, the stare stronger than he was expecting.

“Did you listen to it?” she asks, her voice soft.

“I did.”

“And… what did you think?”

The question is simple and if it were any other situation and if they were different people, the answer would be just as uncomplicated. But Andrei knows the implicit meaning behind Keely’s question. She didn’t want to know if he liked the music or the production or the lyrics; she wanted to know if he really listened to every that she was trying to say.

“It was… you,” he replies, his own voice gentle.

Those electric blue irises stay locked on him and he can see the small tilt of her head, a silent request for clarification.

“I felt you, when I listened. I understood, I – I heard you, Keely.”

He isn’t certain if his words are adequate enough, if they land perfectly so she herself understands what he is trying to say, but he doesn’t know what else to add.

What do you say to the person you never though you would see again? What do you promise someone who already has the world? What else can you give but understanding? How do you prove that you do now – finally – understand when you didn’t two months ago? How do you prove you’ve changed?

However, all of those questions spiraling inside Andrei’s skull silence when a gentle smile tugs at Keely’s lips, those blue eyes turning from ice to spring-water.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she replies, looking away with a light laugh, one that Andrei returns. He can see her body relax and his own body responds in kind. Her attention darts back to him and there is no stopping the skip of his heart in his chest at the sight of her clear earnest stare, emotions on clear display – not hidden beneath a mask of her own design.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the apology that was laced within every song of her latest release now spoken directly to him.  

“So am I,” he tells her. Because it was the truth.

There was no one person to blame for their ending. He was insecure and impatient and ignorant to the reality of her world. She let her past control her reaction to his fears, overcorrecting in order not to get hurt again. They both shared the blame. They were both owed an apology.

“I missed you,” Keely continues, “You still aren’t easy to forget.”

The words are an echo from that first day at her recording studio in New York – another moment where she reached out to him to connect. A moment that was only achieved because he waited for her.

That was what Andrei forgot. He forgot about the promise he made back in Toronto, the first honest question Keely had asked him, the first time he saw the entirety of her. He had been blinded by the amazement of her, the impossibility of being allowed to float in her orbit that he somehow forgot that the bold, brash, confident woman in front of him had been hurt and was vulnerable to being hurt again.

“I… I was thinking. I mean,” Keely says, her voice pulling his attention fully to her. He watches as she trips over her words, her hands coming to the hem of her shirt, twisting the material around her fingers as a humorless chuckle falls from her mouth.

“This is insane.”

“Has this ever not been?” Andrei asks, his turn to lightly tease everything that they had been through, all the events that brought them to this moment. Keely returns his laughter, her blue eyes bright as they land on him. He sees her chest raise, hears the deep breath she takes, her body shifting ever so slightly towards him. He lets her gather herself, lets her take whatever time she needed before speaking again.

“I wanted to say – I came here to let you know that I’ve gotten better. Took the time I needed and… And if you want… I would like to try again.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I want to let you know that I can’t make any guarantees. Can’t promise that people won’t talk or whisper still. Can’t promise you that you won’t see and hear things that you might not want to. I can’t even promise that I’ll be perfect. There will be most likely be times where I’ll get scared and might falter. The only thing that I can promise is that… I like you and I want this – us – to work.”

Her words hang in the air, the truth of them echoing clearly. Andrei can’t stop the smile that appears on his face.

There she was. This was the woman that he fell in love with, this was the woman he wanted in his life. This was Keely – the entirety of her: honest, brave, vulnerable, hopeful, determined.

It is pure instinct that causes Andrei to reach out to her, gently taking her wrist, untangling her fingers from the fabric of her shirt and replacing it with his own calloused skin. He feels her warmth flow into him and he takes a moment to soak in the sunlight of her that he had been missing before locking his eyes with hers.

“Do you remember what you said to me, in Toronto, when I first asked you if you wanted… this? Wanted me for more than a night?”

A smile tugs at Keely’s lips and Andrei can almost see the memory of that moment in the tunnels of Scotiabank playing through her mind.

“Would you wait for me?”

“And you remember what I told you?”

“That you would.”

“I will. And I have been,” he says, his brown eyes staring into the ocean blue depths of hers. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up to a game or call me on the phone or come through my front door. I think would’ve waited an eternity for you to come back. Because I want you, Keely.”

Andrei’s hand tightens around hers, pulling her closer to him as if the action would emphasize his next words. He isn’t sure if it will. A part of him hopes it does.

“All of you.”

And when he sees that smile – that beautiful smile that pulled him into her gravity the very first time they met – appear on Keely’s face, he can’t help but smile in return.

She came back to him. And he’d be damned if he ever let her go again.

a/n: a reconnection!! surely everything will go smoothly from now on (says the author who has the entire fic planned out already). little bonus - this is the outfit Keely is wearing in this fic if you want the visual.

taglist: @fallinallincurls @laureniray @comphy-and-cozy@smileysvech@pyotrkochetkov @thewintersoldierdisaster @svexhenthusiast

let me know if you want to be tagged in this story or if you want to add yourself to my general taglist, click here!!

[deathisararemercy]

Sacrifice

Death x Reader

The center of town was where the real party was at. A small scaffold was set up in the plaza. White lilies were set in baskets around it in dazzling grandeur. On the scaffold was a grand table, set with a brilliant spread. Only one person was seated at it. Out of all the people in the town, they were the only person dressed head-to-toe in black. Muerte couldn’t see their face as a veil covered it, but he could tell their head was bent as they picked at their final meal. This year’s sacrifice.

A/N: I always write these when I'm sleepy, y'know? Not just the fics but also the author's notes in general. I think writing the notes are my favorite part. Do people even read these? Tweedledee-tweedledum- alright. Let's get into it, shall we? This is actually a lot cuter than what the title would suggest, but it also has such an ending with some different interpretations. This is a tiny tiny bit Halloween-y and out of season, but I swear I'll try to write something for Valentine's Day. That fic will definitely be cute and fluffy, I promise.

The fire was dying out.

Not that it mattered much anyway. He was Death; things like the cold, rain, or snow didn’t affect him. Building this campfire at the edge of the dark wood was wholly unnecessary. It was probably going to attract unwanted attention to himself. But watching the dancing sparks from the campfire was a nice distraction from seeing whatever it was that was going on in the town just down the hill. He could feel it in the air and the way the stars glared down at him. Muerte wrinkled his nose. The air smelled sour like rotten onions and inevitable death. But also lamb. He liked lamb.

He stomped out the dying embers of the fire and checked that the area was all nice and clean. The wind hummed a bit. He whistled in response. Satisfied, the wolf drew his hood and began the walk into town.

For what must have been a century now, the villagers of this village held a festival to “keep Death at bay” every year due to a horrible plague that once passed through the town. It had been an awful year with a poor harvest and horrible disease. Muerte could still remember the exhilarating smell of their constant fear. He never experienced anything like it; it was like walking through an electrifying haze for days that left him in a constant state of adrenaline. Despite that, he felt guilty each time he had to take a life during his stay. And there were many.

He was silent and solemn each time he arrived at someone’s deathbed, trying to be gentle. But the way the families screamed and begged, their wails and sobs as he grimly cut the cord tethering their loved ones’ spirits to the mortal realm, haunted him long after he left the town. The spirits had hated him too, pleading for him to send them back, just so they could live a little longer, just so they could say goodbye, and cursing him when he said he could not.

But Death is a promise, not a bargain to be made.

And the villagers had been terrified of El Lobo Muerte ever since.

Since then, each year, they’d put up torches that would burn all through the night and offer one person as a sacrifice, leaving them in the center of the largest field. One hundred years later, the festival was more of a celebration to keep away illness for the coming year and dress up in costume. Little decorations would be pasted up like wolves and skulls. Sickles would be painted red and hung up next to the fields of crops.

In reality, Muerte couldn't control when people died. He was just there to release the dead from the mortal realm and send them on their way to the spirit world. But it was cute, seeing the little paper skulls they pasted up, the decorated gourds, and- oh that smelled good. They were selling chopped pieces of lamb on skewers this year. His red eyes darted to the stall where they were selling them. A small crowd had gathered there. He’d come back and buy two later.

The center of town was where the real party was at. A small scaffold was set up in the plaza. White lilies were set in baskets around it in dazzling grandeur. On the scaffold was a grand table, set with a brilliant spread. Only one person was seated at it. Out of all the people in the town, they were the only person dressed head-to-toe in black. Muerte couldn’t see their face as a veil covered it, but he could tell their head was bent as they picked at their final meal.

This year’s sacrifice.

Muerte leaned against a stall, watching them try to take another bite of food before pushing away their plate. They grabbed a golden chalice and took a long drink.

“Steeling your nerves. Interesting.’’

“What?”

The wolf looked around. He was leaning right against another lamb stall. This one was selling mini-pies. The cook looked up at him in confusion, not fear. Well, it looked like even after just a century, no one bothered to tell anyone what Death looked like.

The wolf grinned, baring his teeth. “Oh, it’s nothing. Say,’’ he leaned down to take a peek at the wares. “Could I have two of those please?”

==x==x==

The procession began at eleven bells. The town suddenly fell silent and solemn as a committee of hooded figures approached the scaffold. The sacrifice trembled as they rose, whether it be from fear, fatigue, or drink Muerte didn’t know. When they reached the bottom of the scaffold, a bouquet of lilies was procured for them by one of the hooded figures. The figures then surrounded the sacrifice until Death could barely see the top of their head. And then, they began to walk.

The crowd parted silently as the hooded figures led the sacrifice out of the village, closing the gap as the procession left. Their pace was horribly slow, but they did need to fill up an hour of time. Muerte followed the procession from a distance.

When they reached the edge of town, where the crowds were thin, the light grew dim, and the stars seemed a bit brighter, one of the hooded figures spoke. “This is the final time you will step foot in this village. Once you leave the light, you are to be led into the dark. With your back to the light, you walk into the cold embrace of death in order for the light to continue to burn bright for all those you leave behind.”

With that, the sacrifice was blindfolded, their veil covered their face again, and their hands were bound. They linked arms with one of the hooded figures and the small procession continued to the village’s largest field. The moon was full and beautiful, and the winds hummed a little tune. The wolf whistled quietly in response.

Muerte walked softly and silently, undetected by the mortals. His eyes glowed red as he tried to see further in the dark. The figures were just leaving the sacrifice there. No final words, no last requests. The figures led them to the center of the field, cleared away except for a cut tree stump, on which they seated the sacrifice. Then they just…left.

Something in Muerte’s chest twisted, his lip curling in disgust as he watched them leave the poor sacrifice alone. In the distance, the village bell tower rang twelve bells. He could faintly hear the person hold their breath expectantly. That was his cue.

“Well, well,” the wolf smirked as he pushed away the crops and stood in the clearing. “If it isn’t this year’s little lamb.” The person stood up suddenly, hopelessly trying to see the wolf in the dark. “Relax,” he chuckled, “I’m not going to eat you.”

“But-”

“Here.” He swiftly removed their veil and blindfold. The wolf suddenly hesitated. Those terrified eyes were…prettier than he expected. If he looked at them any longer, he just might-

Muerte spun them around, grabbing their shoulder so that they wouldn’t trip and fall. Their body was small and warm beneath his cold paws and firm grip. Could he just think clearly for one-

He drew one of his sickles and slashed the rope binding their wrists together. The villager yelped at the sudden release before righting themself. They turned around, and Death focused on staring at the point just between their eyebrows. Their eyebrows knit together as they examined him in the moonlight. Adorable.

“Are you…Death?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And you are?”

They hesitated before giving their name. “My, my, my. What a beautiful name.”

“It’s the same as any other name,” they scoffed. He could see the faintest flicker of a smile flash across their face.

“Well, it’s the name of the person this town foolishly gave up this year. So I think it’s fairly important. Lamb?”

“Yes?”

The wolf howled in laughter, echoing through the silent night. If there was another villager out there, they’d surely be terrified. Muerte reached under his poncho and pulled out the pies, wrapped up in cloth. “I was asking if you wanted a lamb pie, cordero.”

Their face reddened. They snatched one of the pies away and turned their back towards him. “I- I knew that! I was just saying ‘yes’ as in ‘yes! I’d like a pie!’ you stupid lobo.”

Muerte placed a hand on his chest, gasping. “You dare call Death a stupid wolf! You better watch what you say. You never know what will be your final words.” The villager cast a glance back over their shoulder, gaze meeting Death’s. The two of them laughed.

Muerte sat down on the ground next to the stump. The villager stared at the stump before deciding to sit on the ground next to the wolf. They each ate their pies in silence, chewing thoughtfully. The wolf finished first, licking his lips. “You all outdo yourselves every year. That was delicious.”

The villager smiled, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand. “Thanks. We try to make it nice for you.”

Leaning his head on his hand, the wolf shrugged. “At this point, it’s less about me and just having a nice new year. But you know, I enjoy seeing all the cute costumes. A little kid dressed up like that Puss in Boots, running up to me with a stick sword.” His eyes narrowed suddenly, looking at the villager’s face. “Hang on.” They stiffened. He leaned in closer, close enough to smell them and feel them breathe. “You have something…right…there.” He gently wiped away a stray crumb of pie from their face.

“O-oh. Thank you!”

Was that pushing it? He narrowed his eyes again as he looked between that beautiful face and the crumb stuck to his fur. He licked his paw clean, eyes trained on the villager. Their face reddened again. He could feel them trembling a bit, though Muerte was fairly certain it wasn’t from fear.

“Say,” he began slowly, testing the words out, “Do you think I really eat people?”

They were startled and hurriedly responded, “No, of course not! At least…I hope not.”

“Well your prayers have been answered,” Muerte said, rising to his feet. The villager quickly followed. “I don’t really eat people. Neither does that Big Bad Wolf people tend to confuse me with.”

“But the others,” they said slowly, “the others from the previous years. What happened to them?”

The wolf shrugged. “I always bring food because I know they’ll barely be able to eat anything from the nerves. Then, I take them wherever they want to go, that isn’t this village.”

Their eyes widened. “You can do that?”

“Mm, yes. Granted, not everyone likes the way I travel. And the universe isn’t particularly keen on me doing this. But I don’t kill anyone. And they usually survive the trip.”

“‘Usually’?”

“I’m joking, cordero pequeño.” Muerte grinned. “So what will it be? Where would you like to go?”

The little lamb paused. “I…I don’t know.”

“Come on. You can go anywhere in the world. Just say the word.”

“I think I just want to be able to see you again.”

That took Death aback. He blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Was it weird? Sorry, I just- Listen. I want to see you again.” The mortal gestured around the field, ethereal under the moonlight. “I know I said I don’t think you eat people, but I also didn’t really expect to be alive past midnight. I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do. But,” they added, stepping slowly towards the wolf, “now I think I want to get to know you more. You’re a pretty funny guy, Lobo Muerte.”

His heart fluttered in his chest. Well, mierda. The moonlight was caught in their hair, and they smelled sweet and full of life. Muerte bent down, reaching behind the stump to pick up the discarded bouquet of lilies. Quickly before it could wilt under his touch, he pressed one flower to the mortal’s chest. He smiled softly, tapping the tip of their nose. “We’ll find a place for you. And I'll be sure to visit before your time comes for real. I’d like to see you again too. Is that alright?”

They grinned. “Yes, of course.”

“Alright then.” The wolf unsheathed his scythes and thrust them upwards, cutting through the air. A shimmering door of light opened in front of the two. He smiled seeing the wonder on their face. “Let’s go.” And he whistled as they went.

[introverted-imagineer]

The Emperors Solution (Part 21)

Warnings: Language, religious, and gendered themes (In keeping with historical beliefs and practices from the 10th century in which the show is set).

The Emperor had grown up in a world of privilege; the best education money and status could buy, a constant influx of goods that could fill every castle across the empire. A life where the word ‘no’ did not exist. His world on a golden platter that he didn’t have to share with anyone else; Entitled? Yes. Naive? Most probably. Trusting? Possibly. Inattentive? Absolutely not. 

The Emperor stood at the stern of his ship, his chin held high as he seemingly gazed upon his empire. The loyal friend, the sleepy infant, and the bewildered mother sat at the ship's bow. The Emperor’s bride stood starboard side, her eyes like daggers as she gazed at the trio. It had not escaped the Emperor, the way that his bride’s attention went straight to the Viking warrior when she emerged in her sacred garments rather than her husband-to-be. 

Instead of the joyous union the Emperor had hoped for, sailing into the ports of his empire with his bride’s hand in his, he stood there silently plotting. 

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It had seemed like an age since I had seen a city. The noises of people talking, the sounds of blacksmiths banging their hammers against sizzling hot metal, the smells of spices, herbs, and fresh fish as the ports busied with fishermen disposing of their catches. This would have all seemed wonderful, but the only thing my mind could focus on was the sleeping bundle in my arms. The way her tiny body cradled against mine, her head nuzzled upon my breast, my heart beating fast. Was it relief? Nerves? Panic? The questions spinning in my head. Was I holding her correctly? Was she warm enough? Did she seem healthy? So many aspects of motherhood that seemed so natural, but now I questioned if I was capable of caring for her every need. Mathilda sat closely, my head resting on her shoulder. Her arm pointing, words emitting from her mouth. I could feel the vibration of her words as I rested against her body, but I couldn’t hear a word. 

It had been only a fleeting minute that Harald had met the daughter he didn’t even know existed. Only moments before Mathilda eagerly led us to the ship they had travelled upon. As we descended down the hill to the boat, I glanced back to see Harald’s hand delicately nestled within Elena’s grasp, the pair whispering. As we boarded the Emperor’s ship, Harald, Leif and the rest of the group boarding Harald’s ship, I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. How could his attention be so quickly dismissed from his own daughter to the new empress? A feeling of betrayal as he didn’t even try and insist on chaperoning his own flesh and blood to the place where our new lives would be taking us? Did he not care? Was he angry that I had kept her existence a secret? Was he too infatuated with Elena? But I quickly reprimanded myself. Harald Sigurdsson does not owe me anything, I do not owe Harald Sigurdsson anything. 

I am free.

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‘Y/N’….’ Y/N…’ Like being awakened from a deep slumber, except I was already awake. My body jolted like I had been struck with a thunderbolt. The noises of the city pierced my ears, if it had not been for the sleeping bundle in my arms, I would have pressed my palms tightly against my ears to stop the noise. The sun shone so brightly, I would have shielded them if I could, as I looked up from that sweet innocent slumbering face to the thousands of people, the tall buildings and the vast colours that decorated the city of Constantinople. Mathilda stood, her hand outstretched. I looked around, the boat now populated by strange men boarding, tossing ropes across the boat. I gingerly stood up, letting Mathilda’s arm wrap around me as she guided us towards the wooden plank that led down to the dock. I took a deep breath, looking at my surroundings more closely. A feeling of overwhelming crisis taking over. How I had travelled so far, not of my own accord. If it weren’t for Twyla, I knew I would have been angry, destroyed, and possibly even violent. But even as much as I doubted my own ability to be a good mother, the overwhelming urge to protect her and not myself was stronger than those feelings of resentment. 

I slowly shuffled down the plank of wood, the Emperor stood at the bottom of the plank, one hand outstretched to me, his other dutifully holding up the hand of his new bride. I nervously gripped onto his hand, welcoming his steady grip as I clutched Twyla tightly, careful not to disturb or drop her. My senses overwhelmed, barely noticing the sizeable number of people gathered around the port, excitedly watching as the ships and their newcomers disembarked. ‘It’s beautiful, is it not?’ The Emperor’s deep voice emitted, his gaze fixated on me as my face emitted more emotion than I could explain. I looked at him, his face smiling as he clearly enjoyed the moment of a new person seeing his dazzling empire. It was only the feeling of his thumb gently brushing over my fingers that my old instincts kicked in. I gently dropped into a deep curtsey, aghast at my actions as I realised my hand was tightly gripped to that of an Emperor. ‘Forgive me Your Highness for my brazenness.’ The Emperor gently squeezed my hand. ‘For you my dear,  your enchantment on this occasion is understandable.’ As I rose from my curtsey, he lowered my hand, gently brushing his fingers against Twyla’s cheek. His face softened as he admired her. ‘Your daughter has and will continue to bring much joy to my Empire.’ 

‘Harald Sigurdsson’ Elena announced eloquently. I turned slightly to see Harald’s ship docked, looking unseemly behind the Emperors. The Emperor swiftly rounded me as he placed himself directly in front of the group. ‘Welcome to Constantinople’ his arms outstretched like a god, as the people behind him erupted into cheer. He turned around, addressing the crowd of people fixated upon his every move. ‘My people!’ He announced, bringing the cheers and clapping to a dutiful silence. ‘We welcome these newcomers to Constantinople. We celebrate and honour them, as they have returned one of Constantinople’s greatest treasures to its home.’ The crowds erupted into even louder cheers, some even brushing their weeping eyes. I gently pressed my hand against Twyla’s ear, attempting to deafen the overwhelming noise. 

A man waded through the crowd, his hair long and dark, his clothing modest but grand in material and embroidery. The Emperor laughed, his arms outstretched as he gruffly embraced the man, their hands slamming against each other's backs. The man’s eyes gazed at Mathilda with a large smile. The Emperor was quick, however, to turn his attention to Elena, the man dutifully bowing, kissing her knuckles gently as the Emperor looked on proudly. They chatted momentarily as we watched, too nervous to move. Another man swiftly joined, a much larger-looking man in a gold and red uniform. His protruding height made the Emperor look slightly smaller as he craned his neck, whispering something to the Emperor as his eye flickered to the rest of us. The Emperor turned, addressing Harald, Leif, and the rest. ‘Please, follow me’. The group tenderly waited for Elena and the Emperor to lead the way, Harald leading the group, his eyes only casting a look at myself, Mathilda and Twyla momentarily before he trekked after the pair. I stood by Mathilda, confused as she stood, not moving to follow. My confusion however grew as the man who had so gleefully embraced the Emperor hastily walked toward Mathilda, wrapping his arms around her waist, picking her up and spinning in a circle of embrace causing her to joyfully laugh. As he set her on the ground, he passionately kissed her, Mathilda smiling into the kiss as she tightly locked her arms around his neck. 

When they parted, he looked confusingly at Mathilda. ‘Where is?’ He began to ask before Mathilda quickly drew his attention. ‘Y/N, this is my betrothed, Consus’ she introduced stagnantly. ‘Conus, this is ‘Y/N, my dear friend, and Twyla’s mother’ she introduced. ‘Your betrothed?’ I asked confusingly, my eyes darting between the pair. She wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘Consus found Twyla and me after many days and nights after you and Kurya were taken, and brought us to safety in Constantinople’ she said, beaming up at him utterly lovestruck. He nodded ‘Hello Y/N, I know much about you’ he said with a tentative smile. ‘You…you bought my daughter and Mathilda here?’ I asked, shocked by the act of kindness that didn’t seem to phase him. ‘I was travelling here anyway, meeting Mathilda and your beautiful daughter was simply a happy coincidence.’ He explained, brushing the act off as if it were nothing. I walked forward, reluctantly parting from my daughter for the first time since our reunion. Mathilda, equally as confusingly, cradling Twyla to herself. I jumped, wrapping my arms around Consus’s neck as his arms caught my body surprised. ‘Thank you…thank you so much’ I cried into his shoulder. He placed me back down on the dock, as I unlaced one arm, wrapping Mathilda into the embrace. ‘Thank you both so much’ I repeated as I wept uncontrollably. 

It wasn’t until my crying had stopped I released the pair from my tight grip. But the pair didn’t seem to mind, they simply smiled at one another, engulfed in a spell-binding love for one another. I lifted the sleeve of my grotty garments, wiping the tears from my face. As I cleared my eyes, the obvious questions only then started to gather in my mind. ‘Wait…the Emperor?’ I asked pointing to him confusingly. ‘Oh.. my goodness, I’m so sorry’ I muttered, plunging myself into another instinctive curtsey. But Consus was quick to stop me. ‘Please Y/N, there is no need. Emperor Romanos and I are distant cousins, but I am not of noble birth.’ I looked at Mathilda, confused. ‘If Consus is not with me, he is with the Emperor, like two children playing together all the time’ she laughed, making Consus chuckle and nod in agreement. ‘I am simply, like you, a guest of my cousin’ he explained. His kindness was overwhelming, his natural conscience of goodwill was unbelievable. It seemed too good to be true…but my understanding of good had been destroyed over the last few years. I smiled slightly, the genuine kindness too much to truly believe; but it was certainly welcome. ‘Please, follow me to the palace.’ 

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‘You look like a new man’ the Emperor beamed, a friendly ice-breaker as Harald entered the throne room. ‘I smell it too’ Harald beamed, uncertain of the Emperor’s sense of humour, but relieved when the Emperor laughed. The Emperor strode to his podium, taking his seat on his throne, looking down as Harald stood in the centre of the room. 

‘My bride tells me that you, Harald Sigurdsson, are the reason that her venture here was successful. Would you say this to be true?’ He enquired curiously, slanting his head slightly as he watched Harald shift slightly uncomfortably. ‘I cannot truthfully say I knew what I was delivering, I can truthfully say that I am glad we have made it here…most of us anyway.’ The Emperor was not satisfied by this answer, however, unable to shake the feeling that Harald Sigurdsson’s rapport with his bride was as genuine as it seemed. He decided to delve deeper. 

‘My bride is particularly beautiful, is she not?’ He asked, causing Harald to breathe deeply as he stood solemnly before him. ‘Only the best for such a ruler and empire of your calibre’ he responded confidently. Another answer that failed to satisfy the Emperor’s suspicions. ‘She praises you highly Harald Sigurdsson’ he further commented, a slightly sinister tone beneath his friendly manner. ‘The Empress is too kind, she will make you a very happy man I am sure.’ Saliva hitched in his throat as he finished his sentence. Internally berating himself for his oblique statement. The Emperor simply smiled, but the comment ran silently amok in his mind. ‘So Harald Sigurdsson, tell me, what is it that will make you a happy man?’ He questioned, regaining his composure. ‘Most of my happiness lies back in my homeland of Denmark.’ Harald looked at the Emperor, wary of the sudden interest sparked. The Emperor gestured for him to continue. ‘I am the great-great-grandson of Harald Finehair, the first ruler of all of Norway; I intend to build an army and return to Norway to take what is rightfully mine by birth.’ Harald felt awkward, proclaiming rule in another man’s kingdom somehow felt informal. 

Little did he know, this was the most satisfactory answer he had given the Emperor. But something still pressed on his mind. ‘You said ‘most of your happiness’ what more could you want?’ He questioned, finally leaning forward as he placed his hand inquisitively under his chin. ‘My children are meant to be rulers of Norway, and I intend to fulfil that obligation too’. 

This caused the Emperor to rise from his seat.

‘And do you have children Harald Sigurdsson?’ He questioned persistently, an emote of excitement in his voice. Harald nodded slightly. ‘I have a child, back with a woman from my homeland; I do not know however if she or the child are even alive.’ Harald said sorrowfully. ‘And a child with another.’ The Emperor walked down the steps of his podium, walking so he stood right in front of him. ‘Who is this other?’ He questioned. ‘The mother of my daughter is y/n.’ The Emperor tilted his head, putting his finger up in the air and he wiggled it in thought. 

‘You are the father of Twyla?’ He stated a slight smile on his face. 

‘Twyla’ Harald repeated solemnly. 

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It felt like time had stopped. Like everything was too good, something bad was bound to happen. My daughter, my friend, and I were together again, alive. I felt like a little girl again, the way Mathilda sat behind the tub, her fingers gently massaging oils into my hair before scooping the warm water from the bath and pouring it over myself. I sat with my knees curled under my chin, desperately fighting my eyelids, too scared to take my eyes off Twyla for a second as she slept soundly in the basket on the floor. 

‘Tell me about her’ I whispered to Mathilda. I could hear the deepness of her breath, the sudden tenseness. The sponge came into contact as she rubbed circles on my back. ‘She’s a very quiet wee thing…barely fusses if there is someone she knows or a stranger…’ I rested my cheek on my knees, slightly turning to look in her direction. ‘But she only settles or sleeps in the arms of those she’s comfortable with’ she reasoned. Whether that statement was true or not, believing it was easier than accepting it as a friendly lie. I just wanted to feel connected to her. ‘She’s not a big baby, she doesn’t eat as much as she did with you…we have tried a few wet nurses, but she only takes to their breast if she’s starving, but even then she is quick.’ I smiled to myself slightly, feeling selfish at the thought, the way she was still so very small. A wave of guilt sizzled in my stomach at the thought of her starving herself for the milk of her own mother. ‘She smiles sometimes, she likes birds’ she chuckled. ‘Birds?’ I questioned, peeling my eyes away from Twyla, turning myself in the tub to look at Mathilda. ‘She sort of does a smile, and begins to wiggle when she hears birds chirping. Maybe it’s something she remembers from when she was with all of us, Kurya too’ she theorised. I looked back to Twyla, curious that an infant could have the emotional intelligence to recognise and respond to something as simple as a bird. 

*Phwwwwwhht Phwwwwwhht Phwwwwwhht* I whistled, like an experiment, sounding slightly rusty in the dryness of my throat. 

A tiny coo sounded from the wicker basket. Mathilda and I chucked at the adorableness. 

‘Thank you, truly.’ I whispered, knowing that words alone would never be able to express the depth of gratitude. 

The door opened slightly, and a woman ushered herself in with a small pile of folded fabrics. She walked over, placing the fabrics next to the bath, swiftly grasping my tattered, likely mouldy garments and inspecting their worth. Her lips locked tightly together, poking her fingers through the holes and tears, before swiftly waltzing over to the stone fireplace and thrusting them into the flames. She slowly wandered over to Twyla’s basket, crouching down as she smiled, admiring the little girl. Mathilda coughed slightly, sensing my tenseness and wary as I gripped tightly to the side of the tub. ‘Y/N, this is Inaya, one of the wet nurses I was telling you about.’ I felt ashamed, almost angry at the thought of someone else other than me feeding my daughter. Anger at not being there, petty at the thought of women like Inaya having that precious bonding time with my daughter instead of me. But, then again, if it weren’t for women like Inaya, Twyla might not be here. I begrudgingly loosened my grip, wrapping my arms back around my legs. ‘Thank you’ I croaked solemnly. She nodded gently, reaching into the basket and rearranging the blanket on top of her. 

‘The Emperor invites you to join him in dining with him tonight. The invite is extended to you and your daughter, it will be a small private gathering.’ She spoke, walking back to the pile of fabrics, unfolding a long, full-sleeved white linen dress, embroidered with tasteful small colourful floral embellishments. I looked to Inaya, beginning to protest. ‘Thi…this gown is much too grand…I can’t…’ ‘This dress was chosen for you by the Emperor himself, you must wear this.’ She lectured, holding a long linen sheet as she hastily ushered me out of the warm tub. 

‘Let us properly dress and groom you for the occasion’ she said, wrapping the cloth around my shoulders, and ushering me to the fireplace to dry. 

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Harald had attended many feasts, whether he was a guest, or they were thrown in his honour, he would usually feel at ease. However, whether it be the lack of food since Novgorod, or that feasts in Constantinople were just much grander than his homeland, the delicious display of food almost made him feel sick. The table, which had been referred to as ‘modest’ was filled with delicacies. Fruits, loaves of bread, grains, fish, meats, steam still wavering from the plates, emitting wonderful smells and heat that danced across his senses. Leif tentatively walked toward the table, stealing a grape or two. ‘I don’t understand, why does the Emperor want both of us?’ Leif questioned quietly. But Harald did not answer him, instead cautiously waiting for the Emperor to deliver that news himself before Harald could think too much about it. 

The double doors to the grand dining hall flew open, a small group of straight-faced guards marching after the pair in front. The Emperor and Empress, dressed in even grander garments than their meeting that morning. Harald couldn’t peel his eyes away, how for the last month or so he had been acquainted with Elena, the humble and loyal daughter, the fearless combatant and quick thinker in the face of danger. But now, within hours, she was no longer that person. Harald couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed, yet somewhat relieved that he could pursue his loyalties to another he yearned for. But, the thoughts of the two women still caused an internal battle inside his head, no matter how much he knew that he desired one more than the other, it was still a loss either way. 

Behind the group of guards, another entered the room, her head lowered to the ground as she carefully watched her steps. Her dress was too big as it lightly slung over her frame. Her ‘Y/H/C hair was adorned with a silky white headband tied into a neat long bow at the back of her head. A piece of fabric tied to her frame, cradling a small child tightly to her. It took Leif and Harald a moment to recognise the person as the person they already knew so well. 

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I didn’t need to look up. I could feel the stares from across the room, but vainly I couldn’t judge them, I was also perplexed by my reflection in the looking glass. The smell of flowery soap was almost sickening compared to the salty, sweaty odour I had become so used to. 

When I finally peeled my eyes from the infant gently nestled against my chest, I was struck by the amount of food covering the table in the centre of the room. Even since our rescue this morning, I had not thought for one moment about the empty pit in my stomach. So many colours, so many textures, so many flavours and smells that had become so foreign, even though they were once the same things I served daily in my youth in the castle. A lot of food for a ‘small private gathering’ I thought…

‘My friends’ the Emperor announced, standing at the forefront of the room with Elena dutifully by his side. Her pale eyes piercing as I tried to look anywhere but her intense gaze that lay upon me. ‘Tonight, we are here, I hope for a very joyous occasion’ he announced, a smile beaming across his cheeks. Everyone in the room now watching the Emperor with an aura of confusion. ‘Harald Sigurdsson has confided in me, his ambition to return to Norway to take his rightful place as King, and he will do so with my full support.’ The only person to look away from the Emperor was the Empress herself, her gaze shifting to Harald, an expression of dejection in her eyes. ‘And every King must secure his succession’ he announced, taking a step forward as he gestured toward me at the back of the room. ‘Come, please, y/n’ he spoke. 

My stare was blank like my feet were nailed to the floor. Not even the gentle grasping of Twyla’s fingers at my hair was enough to shift me from this moment of derealisation. ‘The Emperor has commanded you’ Elena hissed, taking a step forward. It was only the gentle whisper of my name that prompted my feet to move slowly forward. ‘Y/N’ Leif Eriksson had whispered. I stumbled forward, clutching at the skirt of my dress to not trip over the fabric, while closely clutching the makeshift baby sling closer to me as if I was stepping right into the lion’s den. The Emperor was patient until I stood before him. ‘What kind of life would you both like for your daughter?’ I looked at the Emperor curiously, unsure of his question. Both? ‘You and your husband?’ He questioned. I could feel my insides clenching, and my heart beating faster. The Christian iconography had not escaped me. The adornment of religious relics were scattered all over Constantinople. The large crucifix hanging from his neck. I could feel my arm tighten around Twyla, the way my mother had held me closely as a child when people berated me for my unorthodox parentage. Maybe I could lie? Say my husband was dead? The thoughts running through my head. 

‘We are not married.’ Harald’s voice emitted, stepping toward me, standing stiffly by my side. I looked at him, my eyeballs bulging out of my head as I looked at him in a state of panic. The Emperor stared at us both, attempting to look surprised, but there was something about his gaze that emitted the truth. This information was no surprise to him. The Emperor stood there and continued his performance. ‘Harald Sigurdsson, I was made to believe that many Vikings had accepted Christ as their lord and saviour?’ He questioned. Harald reached into his tunic, pulling out his crucifix as a display of his faith. ‘But, you have sired this child out of wedlock’ he stated. I looked at Leif warily, Leif was also uncomfortable as his sister had also supposedly carried Harald’s child. Harald only replied with a curt nod. ‘How do you expect your people to accept this child as a future noblewoman…possibly even Queen of Norway if she is not of sacred birth?’ 

I wanted to scream. How dare these men assume my daughter’s future for her. How dare they assume that royalty was a safe life for her. How dare they assume that this was my desire for her too. How. Dare. He.

‘I don’t want her to be a Queen…I want her to be happy’ I said, confidently speaking for the first time. The Emperor’s act dropped slightly, the surprise on his face genuine. ‘You do not want this life for her? Education? Protection? Loyalty? Family? He questioned, gesturing to his palace around him, clearly retailing in his own life. ‘It is not that your highness, I want her to have those things, I just don’t necessarily believe that instructing and grooming my daughter for a life of nobility is the only way for her to have those things.’ The room fell even more tense, one might even hear the sound of a pin drop. The Emperor walked forward like time had slowed down. I could feel his every step vibrate across the ground, the sound of his shoe beating against the floor. The callouses of his fingers as he slipped them under my chin, and forced me to look at him. ‘Aren’t mothers supposed to want the best for their children?’ He questioned solemnly. I could feel my heart ripping apart. Every insecurity, every internal crisis I had felt about being a mother. Was this, was my personal feelings a recipe for destruction, was I endangering my daughter? 

He stepped back, and his poised composure returned as he fell back into his performance. ‘Here is my offer. Harald, I cannot help you build a Christian army, a Christian empire if you do not practice such convictions in your own life. A King must have a legitimate heir, he must have a legitimate marriage sanctioned by the Church. I have the desire to help you build this but with the eyes of my people, my council, and my bride, you must understand that not even I hold the power to make such a miracle happen without the guidance and principles of our lord at its core.’ Harald shifted uncomfortably, his fists crunching into himself as he put them protectively behind his back. But Harald simply matched the Emperor’s performance. ‘May I have the opportunity to discuss this with y/n privately?’ He questioned in a way that submitted to the ego of the Emperor, making him feel strong in his position. The Emperor peeled a smile across his face. ‘Of course’ he said, gesturing to a small wooden door across the room. 

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‘What have you done?’ I hissed quietly, clutching Twyla closely. Harald paced around the small room, his knuckles white as he clutched his fingers within his grip. ‘He promised…he promised he would help me’ he muttered angrily to himself. ‘I don’t give a damn about what he promised you, my baby will not be forced to be Queen of some nation that she’s never fucking been.’ ‘She is MY child too y/n’ he hissed, thumping his hand against his chest. ‘Only in the formal sense’ I hissed back passively. ‘Well you can hardly blame me for that…all that time we travelled across the seas, across countries, and you NEVER said a word about our daughter’s existence.’ 

‘Why did you leave?’

I finally asked. Never having had the courage to ask that question. He stopped his pacing, placing his hand gingerly against the wall, his eyes darting to the floor, his composure dropping entirely from the fierce Viking he normally was. ‘Why? Why did you leave that night? You left me in London’ my voice cracked slightly, the gasping of my breath desperate to hide my pain, the anger and betrayal, but mostly the sense of loss I had long felt since that night. 

‘I had stolen so much from you Saxon…I reasoned with myself that if I left you where you had started…where I thought belonged, that life would be better to you than I had so cruelly been’ he whispered, his voice cracking and he spoke, his hand coming up and gripping his mouth to silence the sound. 

A version of Harald that was so rare. A side of him he wouldn’t even let Leif see. And yet, he stood there, his eyes averted in shame, the truth finally spilling. ‘Had I known you were with child…I would have done things differently.’ He turned around, his back turned, hiding the shame he felt spilling his emotions. He let out a sigh, a gentle whistle emitting from his lips. 

*phwoooooh*

Her legs began to gently kick, and a small coo at the sound. Harald turned his head slightly, the sound of his baby like a lightning strike to his body. Exactly how I had felt. As much as I wanted to sit here and argue, to curse him for leaving, to execrate him and the Vikings for all they had done to me. But an annoying part of me cared for him. For being Twyla’s father. I closed my eyes, my thoughts running wildly. Outside this small room, the Emperor waited. Inside this room, the fate of my family was still somewhat within my control. An opportunity that could change all our lives for the better, rather than continue to exist in this confusing state of limbo that had gone on long before we set foot in Constantinople. 

‘Here is what we are going to do.’ Harald turned around, his eyes puffy, slightly red. ‘Twyla will not be Queen of Norway. She will not be a noblewoman. Our job, as her parents, will be this and only this.’ I stated, raising my finger and pointing it at Harald’s chest. ‘We will build a life for her for which she can be safe, happy, and will have choices.’ Harald finally looked at Twyla, their eyes meeting as she stared at him curiously. ‘You will get the Emperor to help you build your army, but while we are here, you will do some things for me.’ His eyes didn’t shift from Twyla, their eyes firmly locked on one another, but he nodded his head. ‘You will find us somewhere to live, somewhere that is not in this castle, somewhere normal where we can live in peace without the Emperor and the Empress controlling our every move. You will find a tutor, for when Twyla comes of age so she will have the opportunity to learn and have an education. But most importantly, you will let me live a normal life with her, not one dictated by your ambition to be King, but a normal, stable life where she can be happy. Those are my conditions.’ Harald finally looked at me, his face aghast. ‘You mean?’ He questioned. ‘Yes. I will agree to the marriage, but only so that the Emperor will help us, he doesn’t need to know the specifics.’ I raised my arm, holding my hand out. A gesture to seal the deal. I was sceptical if Harald Sigurdsson would be willing to not only lie to the Emperor but to relinquish so much control. But Harald looked at Twyla, his eyes softening, his breath easing. His arm locked against mine, with a firm shake. 

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The trio emerged from the room, the Emperor watching carefully, his solution would either fail or succeed. Harald approached the Emperor, a dutiful bow as he did. ‘Your offer is most kind, and with your blessing and support, we would like to accept your generous offer to wed us.’ 

The Emperor smiled, a joyful laugh emitting as his plans fell into place. With Harald Sigurdsson married, with a wife and child, his own marriage would not be threatened by the Empresses’ obvious care for the Viking. A solution so clever, the Emperor so vainly joyful with his brilliance. 

‘Well let us not waste such a glorious moment, let us call upon the clergy and have the beautiful couple wed tonight!’ He announced, his council already walking out of the room to gather the necessary people to unify Harald and y/n. 

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The room began to bustle as the Emperor didn’t waste a moment. I scanned the room, only one pair of eyes fixated on me as she stood with the Emperor. I couldn’t tell who was paler. Elena, or me.